ALVMNW  BOOK  FVND 


THE  SCARECROW  AND 
OTHER  STORIES 


THE    SCARECROW 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

G.  RANGER  WORMSER 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681   FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  E.   P.   BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SCARECROW l 

MUTTER  SCHWEGEL 2I 

HAUNTED 37 

FLOWERS 

THE  SHADOW 8l 

THE  EFFIGY IO5 

THE  FAITH I25 

YELLOW '47 

CHINA-CHING l63 

THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES 187 

BEFORE  THE  DAWN 2I1 

THE  STILLNESS 229 


THE  SCARECROW  AND 
OTHER  STORIES 


THE  SCARECROW 


THE  SCARECROW 

BEN—" 
The  woman  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  ram 
shackle,  tumble-down  shanty.  Her  hands  were 
cupped  at  her  mouth.  The  wind  blew  loose,  whitish 
blond  wisps  of  hair  around  her  face  and  slashed  the 
faded  blue  dress  into  the  uncorseted  bulk  of  her 
body. 

"Benny— oh,   Benny— " 

Her  call  echoed  through  the  still  evening. 

Her  eyes  staring  straight  before  her  down  the 
slope  in  front  of  the  house  caught  sight  of  some 
thing  blue  and  antiquatedly  military  standing  waist 
deep  and  rigid  in  the  corn  field. 

"That  ole  scarecrow,'*  she  muttered  to  herself, 
"that  there  old  scarecrow  with  that  there  ole  uni 
form  onto  him,  too !" 

The  sun  was  going  slowly  just  beyond  the  farthest 
hill.  The  unreal  light  of  the  skies'  reflected  colors 
held  over  the  yellow,  waving  tips  of  the  corn  field. 

"Benny—,"  she  called  again.     "Oh— Benny!" 

And  then  she  saw  him  coming  toward  her  trudg 
ing  up  the  hill. 

She  waited  until  he  stood  in  front  of  her. 

"Supper,  Ben,"  she  said.  "Was  you  down  in  the 
south  meadow  where  you  couldn't  hear  me  call?" 

3 


4  THE  SCARECROW 

"Naw." 

He  was  young  and  slight.  He  had  thick  hair  and 
a  thin  face.  His  features  were  small.  There  was 
nothing  unusual  about  them.  His  eyes  were  deep- 
set  and  long,  with  the  lids  that  were  heavily  fringed. 

"You  heard  me  calling  you?" 

"Yes,  maw." 

He  stood  there  straight  and  still.  His  eyelids 
were  lowered. 

"Why  ain't  you  come  along  then?  What  ails 
you,  Benny,  letting  me  shout  and  shout  that  way?" 

"Nothing — maw." 

"Where  was  you?" 

He  hesitated  a  second  before  answering  her. 

"I  was  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill." 

"And  what  was  you  doing  down  there  to  the  bot 
tom  of  the  hill?  What  was  you  doing  down  there, 
Benny?" 

Her  voice  had  a  hushed  tenseness  to  it. 

"I  was  watching,  maw." 

"Watching,  Benny?" 

"That's  what  I  was  doing." 

His  tone  held  a  guarded  sullenness. 

"  'Tain't  no  such  a  pretty  sunset,  Benny." 

"Warn't  watching  no  sunset." 

"Benny—!" 

"Well."  He  spoke  quickly.  "What  d'you  want 
to  put  it  there  for?  What  d'you  want  to  do  that 
for  in  the  first  place?" 

"There  was  birds,  Benny.  You  know  there  was 
birds." 


THE  SCARECROW  5 

"That  ain't  what  I  mean.  What  for  d'you  put 
on  that  there  uniform?" 

"I  ain't  had  nothing  else.  There  warn't  nothing 
but  your  grand-dad's  ole  uniform.  It's  fair  in  rags, 
Benny.  It's  all  I  had  to  put  on  to  it." 

"Well,  you  done  it  yourself." 

"Naw,  Benny,  naw !  'Tain't  nothing  but  an  ole 
uniform  with  a  stick  into  it.  Just  to  frighten  off 
them  birds.  'Tain't  nothing  else.  Honest,  'tain't, 
Benny." 

He  looked  up  at  her  out  of  the  corners  of  his 
eyes. 

"It  was  waving  its  arms." 

"That's  the  wind." 

"Naw,  maw.  Waving  its  arms  before  the  wind 
it  come  up." 

"Sush,  Benny!    Tain't  likely.    Tain't." 

"I  was  watching,  maw.  I  seen  it  wave  and  wave. 
S'pose  it  should  beckon — ;  s'pose  it  should  beckon 
to  me.  I'd  be  going,  then,  maw." 

"Sush,  Benny." 

"I'd  fair  have  to  go,  maw." 

"Leave  your  mammy?  Naw,  Ben;  naw.  You 
couldn't  never  go  off  and  leave  your  mammy.  Even 
if  you  ain't  able  to  bear  this  here  farm  you 
couldn't  go  off  from  your  mammy.  You  couldn't ! 
Not — your — maw — Benny !" 

She  could  see  his  mouth  twitch.  She  saw  him 
catch  his  lower  lip  in  under  his  teeth. 

"Aw—" 

"Say  you  couldn't  leave,  Benny;  say  it!" 


6  THE  SCARECROW 

"I — I  fair  hate  this  here  farm!"  He  mumbled. 
"Morning  and  night; — and  morning  and  night. 
Nothing  but  chores  and  earth.  And  then  some 
more  of  them  chores.  And  always  that  there  way. 
So  it  is!  Always!  And  the  stillness!  Nothing 
alive,  nothing!  Sometimes  I  ain't  able  to  stand  it 
nohow.  Sometimes — !" 

"You'll  get  to  like  it — ;  later,  mebbe — " 

"Naw!  naw,  maw!" 

"You  will,  Benny.     Sure  you  will." 

"I  won't  never.  I  ain't  able  to  help  fretting. 
It's  all  closed  up  tight  inside  of  me.  Eating  and 
eating.  It  makes  me  feel  sick." 

She  put  out  a  hand  and  laid  it  heavily  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Likely  it's  a  touch  of  fever  in  the  blood,  Benny." 

"Aw — !    I  ain't  got  no  fever !" 

"You'll  be  feeling  better  in  the  morning,  Ben." 

"I'll  be  feeling  the  same,  maw.  That's  just  it. 
Alway  the  same.  Nothing  but  the  stillness.  Noth 
ing  alive.  And  down  there  in  the  corn  field — " 

"That  ain't  alive,  Benny!" 

"Ain't  it,  maw?" 

"Don't  say  that,  Benny.    Don't!" 

He  shook  her  hand  off  of  him. 

"I  was  watching,"  he  said  doggedly.  "I  seen  it 
wave  and  wave." 

She  turned  into  the  house. 

"That  ole  scarecrow!"  She  muttered  to  herself. 
"That  there  ole  scarecrow !" 


THE  SCARECROW  7 

She  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen.  The  boy  fol 
lowed  at  her  heels. 

A  lamp  was  lighted  on  the  center  table.  The 
one  window  was  uncurtained.  Through  the  naked 
spot  of  it  the  evening  glow  poured  shimmeringly  into 
the  room. 

Inside  the  doorway  they  both  paused. 

"You  set  down,  Benny." 

He  pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  table. 

She  took  a  steaming  pot  from  the  stove  and 
emptying  it  into  a  plate,  placed  the  dish  before  him. 

He  fell  to  eating  silently. 

She  came  and  sat  opposite  him.  She  watched 
him  cautiously.  She  did  not  want  him  to  know  that 
she  was  watching  him.  Whenever  he  glanced  up 
she  hurried  her  eyes  away  from  his  face.  In  the 
stillness  the  only  live  things  were  those  two  pair 
of  eyes  darting  away  from  each  other. 

"Benny — !"  She  could  not  stand  it  any  longer. 
"Benny — just— you — just — you — " 

He  gulped  down  a  mouthful  of  food. 

"Aw,  maw — don't  you  start  nothing.  Not  no 
more  to-night,  maw." 

She  half  rose  from  her  chair.  For  a  second  she 
leaned  stiffly  against  the  table.  Then  she  slipped 
back  into  her  seat,  her  whole  body  limp  and  re 
laxed. 

"I  ain't  going  to  start  nothing,  Benny.  I  ain't 
even  going  to  talk  about  this  here  farm.  Honest — 
I  ain't." 

"Aw — this — here — farm —  I" 


8  THE  SCARECROW 

"I've  gave  the  best  years  of  my  life  to  it." 

She  spoke  the  words  defiantly. 

"You  said  that  all  afore,  maw." 

"It's  true,"  she  murmured.  "Terrible  true.  And 
I  done  it  for  you,  Benny.  I  wanted  to  be  giving  you 
something.  It's  all  I'd  got  to  give  you,  Benny. 
There's  many  a  man,  Ben,  that's  glad  of  his  farm. 
And  grateful,  too.  There's  many  that  makes  it 
pay." 

"And  what'll  I  do  if  it  does  pay,  maw?  What'll 
I  do  then?" 

"I — I — don't  know,  Benny.  It's  only  just  be 
ginning,  now." 

"But  if  it  does  pay,  maw?  What'll  I  do?  Go 
away  from  here?" 

"Naw,  Benny — .  Not — away — .  What'd  you 
go  away  for,  when  it  pays?  After  all  them  years 
I  gave  to  it?" 

His  spoon  clattered  noisily  to  his  plate.  He 
pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table.  The  legs 
of  it  rasped  loudly  along  the  uncarpeted  floor.  He 
got  to  his  feet. 

"Let's  go  on  outside,"  he  said.  "There  ain't 
no  sense  to  this  here  talking — and  talking." 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  narrow 
and  hard. 

"All  right,  Benny.  I'll  clear  up.  I'll  be  along  in 
a  minute.  All  right,  Benny." 

He  slouched  heavily  out  of  the  room. 

She  sat  where  she  was,  the  set  look  pressed  on 


THE  SCARECROW  9 

her  face.  Automatically  her  hands  reached  out 
among  the  dishes,  pulling  them  toward  her. 

Outside  the  boy  sank  down  on  the  step. 

It  was  getting  dark.  There  were  shadows  along 
the  ground.  Blue  shadows.  In  the  graying  skies 
one  star  shone  brilliantly.  Beyond  the  mist-slurred 
summit  of  a  hill  the  full  moon  grew  yellow. 

In  front  of  him  was  the  slope  of  wind-moved  corn 
field,  and  in  the  center  of  it  the  dim,  military  figure 
standing  waist  deep  in  the  corn. 

His  eyes  fixed  themselves  to  it. 

"Ole — uniform — with — a — stick — into — it." 

He  whispered  the  words  very  low. 

Still — standing  there — still.  The  same  wooden 
attitude  of  it.  His  same,  cunning  watching  of  it. 

There  was  a  wind.  He  knew  it  was  going  over 
his  face.  He  could  feel  the  cool  of  the  wind  across 
his  moistened  lips. 

He  took  a  deep  breath. 

Down  there  in  the  shivering  corn  field,  standing  in 
the  dark,  blue  shadows,  the  dim  figure  had  quivered. 

An  arm  moved — swaying  to  and  fro.  The  other 
arm  began — swaying — swaying.  A  tremor  ran 
through  it.  Once  it  pivoted.  The  head  shook 
slowly  from  side  to  side.  The  arms  rose  and  fell — 
and  rose  again.  The  head  came  up  and  down  and 
rocked  a  bit  to  either  side. 

"I'm  here — "  he  muttered  involuntarily.    "Here." 

The  arms  were  tossing  and  stretching. 

He  thought  the  head  faced  in  his  direction. 

The  wind  had  died  out. 


io  THE  SCARECROW 

The  arms  went  down  and  came  up  and  reached. 

"Benny— " 

The  woman  seated  herself  on  the  step  at  his  side. 

"Look!"    He  mumbled.    "Look!" 

He  pointed  his  hand  at  the  dim  figure  shifting 
restlessly  in  the  quiet,  shadow-saturated  corn  field. 

Her  eyes  followed  after  his. 

"Oh— Benny— " 

"Well — "  His  voice  was  hoarse.  "It's  mov 
ing,  ain't  it?  You  can  see  it  moving  for  yourself, 
can't  you?  You  ain't  able  to  say  you  don't  see  it, 
are  you?" 

"The — wind — "    She  stammered. 

"Where's  the  wind?" 

"Down— there." 

"D'you  feel  a  wind?    Say,  d'you  feel  a  wind?" 

"Mebbe — down — there." 

"There  ain't  no  wind.  Not  now — there  ain't! 
And  it's  moving,  ain't  it?  Say,  it's  moving,  ain't 
it?" 

"It  looks  like  it  was  dancing.  So  it  does.  Like 
as  if  it  was — making — itself — dance — " 

His  eyes  were  still  riveted  on  those  arms  that 
came  up  and  down — ;  up  and  down — ;  and  reached. 

"It'll  stop  soon — now."  He  stuttered  it  more  to 
himself  than  to  her.  "Then — it'll  be  still.  I've 
watched  it  mighty  often.  Mebbe  it  knows  I  watch 
it.  Mebbe  that's  why — it — moves — " 

"Aw— Benny— " 

"Well,  you  see  it,  don't  you?  You  thought  there 
was  something  the  matter  with  me  when  I  come  and 


THE  SCARECROW  n 

told  you  how  it  waves — and  waves.  But  you  seen 
it  waving,  ain't  you?" 

"It's  nothing,  Ben.    Look,  Benny.    It's  stopped!" 

The  two  of  them  stared  down  the  slope  at  the 
dim,  military  figure  standing  rigid  and  waist  deep  in 
the  corn  field. 

The  woman  gave  a  quick  sigh  of  relief. 

For  several  moments  they  were  silent. 

From  somewhere  in  the  distance  came  the  harsh, 
discordant  sound  of  bull  frogs  croaking.  Out  in  the 
night  a  dog  bayed  at  the  golden,  full  moon  climbing 
up  over  the  hills.  A  bird  circled  between  sky  and 
earth  hovering  above  the  corn  field.  They  saw  its 
slow  descent,  and  then  for  a  second  they  caught  the 
startled  whir  of  its  wings,  as  it  flew  blindly  into  the 
night. 

"That  ole  scarecrow!"    She  muttered. 

"S'pose — "  He  whispered.  "S'pose  when  it 
starts  its  moving  like  that; — s'pose  some  day  it 
walks  out  of  that  there  corn  field!  Just  naturally 
walks  out  here  to  me.  What  then,  if  it  walks  out?" 

"Benny—!" 

"That's  what  I'm  thinking  of  all  the  time.  If  it 
takes  it  into  its  head  to  just  naturally  walk  out  here. 
What's  going  to  stop  it,  if  it  wants  to  walk  out  after 
me;  once  it  starts  moving  that  way?  What?" 

"Benny — !     It  couldn't  do  that!     It  couldn't!" 

"Mebbe  it  won't.  Mebbe  it'll  just  beckon  first. 
Mebbe  it  won't  come  after  me.  Not  if  I  go  when  it 
beckons.  I  kind  of  figure  it'll  beckon  when  it  wants 
me.  I  couldn't  stand  the  other.  I  couldn't  wait 


12  THE  SCARECROW 

for  it  to  come  out  here  after  me.  I  kind  of  feel  it'll 
beckon.  When  it  beckons,  I'll  be  going." 

"Benny,  there's  sickness  coming  on  you." 

"  'Tain't  no  sickness." 

The  woman's  hands  were  clinched  together  in  her 
lap. 

"I  wish  to  Gawd—"  She  said— "I  wish  I  ain't 
never  seen  the  day  when  I  put  that  there  thing  up 
in  that  there  corn  field.  But  I  ain't  thought  nothing 
like  this  could  never  happen.  I  wish  to  Gawd  I 
ain't  never  seen  the  day — " 

"  'Tain't  got  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

His  voice  was  very  low. 

"It's  got  everything  to  do  with  me.  So  it  has! 
You  said  that  afore  yourself;  and  you  was  right. 
Ain't  I  put  it  up?  Ain't  I  looked  high  and  low  the 
house  through?  Ain't  that  ole  uniform  of  your 
grand-dad's  been  the  only  rag  I  could  lay  my  hands 
on?  Was  there  anything  else  I  could  use?  Was 
there?" 

"Aw— maw— !" 

"Ain't  we  needed  a  scarecrow  down  there?  With 
them  birds  so  awful  bad?  Pecking  away  at  the 
corn;  and  pecking." 

"  'Tain't  your  fault,  maw." 

"There  warn't  nothing  else  but  that  there  ole  uni 
form.  I  wouldn't  have  took  it,  otherwise.  Poor  ole 
Pa  so  desperate  proud  of  it  as  he  was.  Him  fight 
ing  for  his  country  in  it.  Always  saying  that  he  was. 
He  couldn't  be  doing  enough  for  his  country.  And 
that  there  ole  uniform  meaning  so  much  to  him. 


THE  SCARECROW  13 

Like  a  part  of  him  I  used  to  think  it, — and — .  You 
wanting  to  say  something,  Ben?" 

"Naw— naw—  I" 

"He  wouldn't  even  let  us  be  burying  him  in  it. 
Tut  my  country's  flag  next  my  skin';  he  told  us. 
'When  I  die  keep  the  ole  uniform.'  Just  like  a  part 
of  him,  he  thought  it.  Wouldn't  I  have  kept  it,  fall 
ing  to  pieces  as  it  is,  if  there'd  have  been  anything 
else  to  put  up  there  in  that  there  corn  field?" 

She  felt  the  boy  stiffen  suddenly. 

"And  with  him  a  soldier — " 

He  broke  off  abruptly. 

She  sensed  what  he  was  about  to  say. 

"Aw,  Benny — .  That  was  different.  Honest,  it 
was.  He  warn't  the  only  one  in  his  family.  There 
was  two  brothers." 

The  boy  got  to  his  feet. 

"Why  won't  you  let  me  go?"  He  asked  it  pas 
sionately.  "Why  d'you  keep  me  here?  You  know 
I  ain't  happy !  You  know  all  the  men've  gone  from 
these  here  parts.  You  know  I  ain't  happy!  Ain't 
you  going  to  see  how  much  I  want  to  go?  Ain't  you 
able  to  know  that  I  want  to  fight  for  my  country? 
The  way  he  did  his  fighting?" 

The  boy  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
figure  standing  waist  deep  in  the  corn  field;  standing 
rigidly  and  faintly  outlined  beneath  the  haunting 
flood  of  moonlight. 

"Naw,  Benny.    You  can't  go.    Naw — I" 

"Why,  maw?  WThy  d'you  keep  saying  that  and 
saying  it?" 


14  THE  SCARECROW 

"I'm  all  alone,  Benny.  I've  gave  all  my  best 
years  to  make  the  farm  pay  for  you.  You  got  to 
stay,  Benny.  You  got  to  stay  on  here  with  me.  You 
just  plain  got — to !  You'll  be  glad  some  day,  Benny. 
Later — on.  You'll  be  right  glad." 

She  saw  him  thrust  his  hands  hastily  into  his 
trouser  pockets. 

"Glad?"  His  voice  sounded  tired.  "I'll  be 
shamed.  That's  what  I'll  be.  Nothing,  d'  you 
hear,  nothing — but  shamed!" 

She  started  to  her  feet. 

"Benny — "  A  note  of  fear  shook  through  the 
words.  uYou  wouldn't — wouldn't — go?" 

He  waited  a  moment  before  he  answered  her. 

"If  you  ain't  wanting  me  to  go — ;  I'll  stay. 
Gawd!  I  guess  I  plain  got  to — stay." 

"That's  a  good  boy,  Benny.  You  won't  never 
be  sorry — nohow — I  promise  you! — I'll  be  making 
it  up  to  you.  Honest,  I  will! — There's  lots  of 

ways_rn_!» 

He  interrupted  her. 

"Only,  maw — ;  I  won't  let  it  come  after  me.  If 
it  beckons  I — got — to — go — !" 

She  gave  a  sudden  laugh  that  trailed  off  uncer 
tainly. 

"  'Tain't  going  to  beckon,  Benny." 

"It  if  beckons,  maw — " 

"  'Tain't  going  to,  Benny.  'Tain't  nothing  but 
the  wind  that  moves  it.  It's  just  the  wind,  sure. 
Mebbe  you  got  a  touch  of  fever.  Mebbe  you  better 
go  on  to  bed.  You'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning. 


THE  SCARECROW  15 

Just  you  wait  and  see.  You're  a  good  boy,  Benny. 
You'll  never  go  off  and  leave  your  maw  and  the 
farm.  You're  a  fine  lad,  Benny." 

"If — it — beckons — "  He  repeated  in  weary 
monotone. 

"Tain't,  Benny!" 

"I'll  be  going  to  bed,"  he  said. 

"That's  it,  Benny.    Good  night." 

"Good  night,  maw." 

She  stood  there  listening  to  his  feet  thudding  up 
the  stairs.  She  heard  him  knocking  about  in  the 
room  overhead.  A  door  banged.  She  stood  quite 
still.  There  were  footsteps  moving  slowly.  A 
window  was  thrown  open. 

She  looked  up  to  see  him  leaning  far  out  over  the 
sill. 

Her  eyes  went  down  the  slope  of  the  moonlight- 
bathed  corn  field. 

Her  right  hand  curled  itself  into  a  fist. 

"Ole— scarecrow— !" 

She  half  laughed. 

She  waited  there  until  she  saw  the  boy  draw  away 
from  the  window.  She  went  into  the  house  and 
bolted  the  door  behind  her.  Then  she  went  up  the 
narrow  steps. 

That  night  she  lay  awake  for  a  long  time.  The 
heat  had  grown  intense.  She  found  herself  tossing 
from  side  to  side  of  the  small  bed. 

The  window  shade  had  stuck  at  the  top  of  the 
window. 


1 6  THE  SCARECROW 

The  moonlight  trickled  into  the  room.  She  could 
see  the  window-framed,  star-specked  patch  of  the 
skies.  When  she  sat  up  she  saw  the  round,  reddish- 
yellow  ball  of  the  moon. 

She  must  have  dozed,  because  she  woke  with  a 
start.  She  felt  that  she  had  had  a  fearful,  evil 
dream.  The  horror  of  it  clung  to  her. 

The  room  was  like  an  oven. 

She  thought  the  walls  were  coming  together  and 
the  ceiling  pressing  down. 

Her  body  was  covered  with  sweat. 

She  forced  herself  wide  awake.  She  made  her 
self  get  out  of  the  bed.  She  stood  for  a  second  un 
certain.  Then  she  went  to  the  window. 

Not  a  breath  of  air  stirring. 

The  moon  was  high  in  the  sky. 

She  looked  out  across  the  hills. 

Down  there  to  the  left  the  acres  of  potatoes. 
Potatoes  were  paying.  She  counted  on  a  big 
harvest.  To  the  right  the  wheat.  Only  the  second 
year  for  those  five  fields.  She  knew  that  she  had 
done  well  with  them. 

She  thought,  with  a  smile  running  over  her  lips, 
back  to  the  time  when  less  than  half  of  the  place  had 
been  under  cultivation.  She  remembered  her  dream 
of  getting  the  whole  of  her  farm  in  work.  She  and 
the  boy  had  made  good.  She  thought  of  that  with 
savage  complacency.  It  had  been  a  struggle ;  a  bit 
ter,  hard  fight  from  the  beginning.  But  she  had 
made  good  with  her  farm. 


THE  SCARECROW  17 

And  there  down  the  slope,  just  in  front  of  the 
house,  the  corn  field.  And  in  the  center  of  it,  stand 
ing  waist  deep  in  the  corn,  the  antiquated,  military 
figure. 

The  smile  slid  from  her  mouth. 

The  suffocating  heat  was  terrific. 

Not  a  breath  of  air. 

Suddenly  she  began  to  shake  from  head  to  foot. 

Her  eyes  wide  and  staring,  were  fixed  on  the 
moonlight-whitened  corn  field;  her  eyes  were  held 
to  the  moonlight-streaked  figure  standing  in  the 
ghostly  corn. 

Moving — 

An  arm  swayed — swayed  to  and  fro.  Backwards 
and  forwards — backwards —  The  other  arm 
— swaying —  A  tremor  ran  through  it.  Once  it 
pivoted.  The  head  shook  slowly  from  side  to 
side.  The  arms  rose  and  fell — ;  and  rose  again. 
The  head  came  up  and  down,  and  rocked  a  bit  to 
either  side. 

"Dancing — "  She  whispered  stupidly.  "Dane- 
ing-" 

She  thought  she  could  not  breathe. 

She  had  never  felt  such  oppressive  heat. 

The  arms  were  tossing  and  stretching. 

She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  it. 

And  then  she  saw  both  arms  reach  out,  and  slowly, 
very  slowly,  she  saw  the  hands  of  them,  beckoning. 

In  the  stillness  o*  the  room  next  to  her  she 
thought  she  heard  a  crash. 


1 8  THE  SCARECROW 

She  listened  intently,  her  eyes  stuck  to  those  reach 
ing  arms,  and  the  hands  of  them  that  beckoned  and 
beckoned. 

"Benny— "    She  murmured— "Benny— !" 

Silence. 

She  could  not  think. 

It  was  his  talk  that  had  done  this — Benny's 
talk — He  had  said  something  about  it — walk 
ing  out —  If  it  should  come — out — !  Moving  all 
over  like  that —  If  its  feet  should  start — !  If  they 
should  of  a  sudden  begin  to  shuffle — ;  shuffle  out  of 
the  cornfield — ! 

But  Benny  wasn't  awake.  He — couldn't — see — 
it.  Thank  Gawd!  If  only  something — would — 
hold — it!  If — only — it — would — stop — ;  Gawd! 

Nothing  stirring  out  there  in  the  haunting  moon 
lighted  night.  Nothing  moving.  Nothing  but  the 
figure  standing  waist  deep  in  the  corn  field.  And 
even  as  she  looked,  the  rigid,  military  figure  grew 
still.  Still,  now,  but  for  those  slow,  beckoning  hands. 

A  tremendous  dizziness  came  over  her. 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  second  and  then  she 
stumbled  back  to  the  bed. 

She  lay  there  panting.  She  pulled  the  sheets  up 
across  her  face;  her  shaking  fingers  working  the 
tops  of  them  into  a  hard  ball.  She  stuffed  it  be 
tween  her  chattering  teeth. 

Whatever  happened,  Benny  mustn't  hear  her. 
She  mustn't  waken,  Benny.  Thank  Heaven,  Benny 
was  asleep.  Benny  must  never  know  how,  out  there 


THE  SCARECROW  19 

in  the  whitened  night,  the  hands  of  the  figure  slowly 
and  unceasingly  beckoned  and  beckoned. 

The  sight  of  those  reaching  arms  stayed  before 
her.  When,  hours  later,  she  fell  asleep,  she  still 
saw  the  slow-moving,  motioning  hands. 

It  was  morning  when  she  wakened. 

The  sun  streamed  into  the  room. 

She  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Benny—"    She  called.    "Oh,  Benny." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Benny—"  She  called  again.  "Get  on  up.  It's 
late,  Benny!" 

The  house  was  quiet. 

She  half  dressed  herself  and  went  into  his  room. 

The  bed  had  been  slept  in.  She  saw  that  at  a 
glance.  His  clothes  were  not  there.  Down — in — the 
— field — because — she'd — forgotten — to — wake — 
him — . 

In  a  sudden  stunning  flash  she  remembered  the 
crash  she  had  heard. 

It  took  her  a  long  while  to  get  to  the  little  closet 
behind  the  bed.  Before  she  opened  it  she  knew  it 
would  be  empty. 

The  door  creaked  open. 

His  one  hat  and  coat  were  gone. 

She  had  known  that. 

He  had  seen  those  two  reaching  arms!  He  had 
seen  those  two  hands  that  had  slowly,  very  slowly, 
beckoned! 

She  went  to  the  window. 

Her  eyes  staring  straight  before  her,  down  the 


20  THE  SCARECROW 

slope  in  front  of  the  house,  caught  sight  of  some 
thing  blue  and  antiquatedly  military  standing  waist 
deep  and  rigid  in  the  corn  field. 

"You  ole  scarecrow — !"  She  whimpered. 
"Why're  you  standing  there?"  She  sobbed. 
"What' re  you  standing  still  for — now?" 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL 

HE  was  tremendously  disappointed.  The  house 
was  empty.  He  had  thought  it  looked  unin 
habited  from  the  outside.  It  made  him  a  bit  dreary 
to  have  his  people  away  like  this.  That  uncertain 
feeling  came  over  him  again.  The  uncertain  feeling 
never  quite  left  him  of  late.  He  was  conscious  of 
it  most  of  the  time.  It  formed  an  intangible  back 
ground  to  all. his  other  thought. 

He  decided  he  would  go  down  to  the  lodge  pres 
ently.  He  was  certain  to  find  Bennet  at  the  lodge. 
And  Bennet's  wife;  and  Bennet's  three  children. 
He  grinned  as  he  thought  of  Bennet  chasing  his 
children  out  of  his  gardens.  He  could  imagine  the 
old  gardener's  gladness  at  his  homecoming. 

Going  quickly  up  the  last  flight  of  stairs,  he  could 
see  that  the  door  of  his  room  stood  ajar.  He 
wondered  at  the  yellow  glow  of  light  trickling  in  a 
long  narrow  stream  out  into  the  dark  of  the  hall. 

He  went  rushing  along  the  corridor. 

He  pushed  the  door  open. 

The  same  old  room.  The 'familiar,  faded  wall 
paper.  The  high,  mahogany  bed.  The  hunting 
print  he  had  so  cherished  on  the  wall  facing  him. 
The  table  just  as  he  had  left  it;  the  books  piled  in 
neat  stacks  on  its  polished  surface.  The  lamp  stand- 

23 


24  THE  SCARECROW 

ing  lighted  among  the  books.  The  two  big  arm 
chairs. 

He  took  a  deep  breath  of  surprise. 

Some  one  was  seated  in  the  chair  facing  from  him. 

He  saw  the  top  of  a  man's  head.  He  had  a  dim 
recognition  of  feet  sprawling  from  under  the  chair. 
On  either  arm  of  the  chair  rested  a  man's  hand. 
There  was  something  he  knew  about  those  hands; 
the  prominent  knuckles;  the  long,  well  made  fingers. 
The  heavy,  silver  signet  ring  on  the  smallest  finger 
of  the  left  hand  was  a  ring  he  had  often  seen. 

He  crossed  the  room. 

"Otto— !" 

Standing  there  in  front  of  Kurz,  he  wondered  at 
the  change  in  him.  He  looked  so  much  older. 
There  was  no  trace  left  of  the  boyishness  which  he 
had  always  associated  with  Otto  Kurz.  There  were 
gray  streaks  in  Kurz's  heavy  hair;  gray  at  the 
temples  of  the  wide  forehead;  gray  behind  the  ears. 
The  mustache  and  beard  were  threaded  with 
grayed  hairs. 

He  was  astonished  to  find  Otto  Kurz  in  his  room. 

"Otto — !  I  had  no  idea  that  you  would  be 
here—!" 

He  could  not  understand  the  rigid  attitude  of  the 
man's  great  body;  the  set  mobility  of  the  man's  large 
hewn  features. 

He  moved  a  bit  so  as  to  stand  directly  in  the  line 
of  those  fixed  staring  eyes.  He  wanted  to  interrupt 
the  wooden  expression  of  those  eyes. 

"Otto-—    It  was  good  of  you  to  come." 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL  25 

Kurz's  eyes  raised  themselves  to  meet  his  eyes. 
He  quivered  at  the  look  in  Kurz's  eyes. 

"My  God!—    What  is  it—  ?" 

The  glazed,  deadened  eyes  with  the  live,  dumbed 
suffering  behind  them  widened. 

"Ach—     Charlie—  I" 

"What's  happened,  Otto?" 

"I — do — not — know.  I  was  waiting,  Charlie — 
for — you — to — come." 

"Good  old  Otto!" 

He  saw  Kurz's  hand  with  the  heavy,  silver  signet 
ring  on  the  smallest  finger  go  up  trembling  to  his 
beard.  It  was  the  old  familiar  gesture. 

"Good? —     Did  you  say  good  of  me,  Charlie?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  He  insisted  eagerly.  "Of  course  it 
was  good  of  you  to  come  and  meet  me." 

»I_had—to—come." 

For  he  a  second  he  wondered. 

"But  how  did  you  know? — Who  told  you?; — I 
only  just  got  here.  No  one — knew.  How  could  you 
have  known  I  was  coming?" 

He  heard  Kurz  sigh;  a  long  sigh  that  quavered 
at  the  end. 

"I—?    Ach !— how— I— hoped— !" 

"That  I  would  come?" 

"That  you  would  come,  Charlie." 

He  could  not  fathom  the  look  in  Kurz's  eyes.  He 
had  never  seen  a  look  like  that  in  those  eyes.  He 
thought  that  it  was  not  a  human  look. 

"See  here,  Otto—    What  is  it?" 


26  THE  SCARECROW 

Kurz  made  a  little,  appealing  gesture  with  his 
long,  trembling  hands. 

"Later —     I — will — try — to — tell — you — " 

"Later?" 

Kurz  nodded  his  great,  shaggy  head  up  and  down. 

"How  did  you  come  in  here,  Charlie?" 

He  was  surprised  at  the  question. 

"How?  Why,  with  my  latch  key,  of  course!" 

He  glanced  over  at  the  windows.  The  blinds 
were  up.  He  could  see  the  dark  pressing  against 
the  glass;  pressing  tightly  so  that  it  spread.  He 
started  for  the  window.  Kurz's  voice  stopped  him. 

"And  your  family?  You  have  then  seen  your 
family,  Charlie?" 

He  smiled. 

"No.  Not  yet.  They  weren't  here  when  you 
came  in,  were  they?" 

"No — no! — I — have — seen — no — one.  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  go  before  any  one.  There  was 
an  old  man.  He  was  going  down  the  hall.  I  waited 
till  he  passed.  He  must  have  come  to  light  your 
lamp." 

"Well,  old  Otto—  They're  not  here.  I've 
hunted  all  through  the  house  for  them.  I  rather 
think  they  must  have  gone  down  to  Surrey.  They've 
taken  the  servants  with  them.  After  a  bit  we'll 
walk  over  to  the  lodge  and  ask  Bennet  where  my 
people  are.  That  must  have  been  Bennet  you  saw 
up  here." 

"Then  you  do  not  know?" 

"Know  what?" 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL  27 

"About  your  family?" 

"But  I  just  told  you,  Otto;  they  must've  run  down 
to  our  place  in  Surrey.  I  only  came  up  here  to  get 
a  look  at  the  old  room.  I'll  go  down  and  ask  Ben- 
net  presently." 

A  quick  moan  escaped  through  Kurz's  set  lips. 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  to  him. 

"You,  Otto —  How  did  you  get  in  here? — With 
them  all  away? — With  the  servants  gone?" 

He  saw  the  muscles  of  Kurz's  face  twitch  hor 
ribly. 

"Ach — •!  You  must  not  ask,  Charlie.  A  little 
time,  Charlie.  There  are  things  I  do  not  myself 
know.  Later — I — will — try — to — tell — you." 

"Things  you  do  not  know,  Otto?" 

Kurz's  mouth  twisted  itself  into  a  distorted  grin. 

"I  do  not  blame  you  for  ridiculing  me,  Charlie. 
I  always  thought  I  knew  everything.  Later — ;  you 
will  see." 

"Why  not  tell  me  now?" 

uNo — no — !"  Kurz's  voice  whined  frantically. 
"I  do  not  know  if  you  yourself  understand." 

"I  was  only  trying  to  help  you,  old  chap." 

"Help — !  It  is  that  I  want.  It  is  that  which 
brought  me  here.  It  is  because  I  must  have  you  help 


me." 


"You've  only  to  say  what  you  want." 
"Your  help—" 

"You  know  I'll  do  whatever  I  can  for  you." 
"Yes — ;  I  hoped  that.     I  counted — on — your — 
help." 


28  THE  SCARECROW 

He  waited  for  Kurz  to  go  on.  Kurz  sat  there 
silent.  The  long,  shaking  fingers  fumbled  at  each 
other. 

"Well?" 

"Later." 

"All  right —  I  don't  know  what  you're  driving 
at." 

"Are — you — sure — you — do — not — know — ?" 

"But —  If  you  don't  want  to  tell  me  now;  why, 
tell  me  in  your  own  good  time,  old  fellow." 

"Yes.  You  are  not  angry?  You  do  not  care  if 
I  say  it  later?" 

"Of  course  I  don't  care." 

"Not — care —  If — you — knew — ;  if — it — is — 
true — ;  you  will  care !" 

He  could  not  make  out  what  Kurz  meant. 

"It's  mighty  nice  seeing  you,"  he  said  after  a 
second's  silence.  "It's  been  a  long  time.  Years 
since  I've  seen  you." 

"I  came  though,  Charlie; — I  had  to  come, 
Charlie." 

"I'm  jolly  well  glad  you  did!" 

"You  knew  I  would  come." 

He  drew  his  brows  together  in  a  perplexed  frown. 

"I  knew  we  would  meet  sometime." 

"Yes.  Sometime." 

"And  the  sometime's  now.     Eh,  Otto?" 

"Now?"  Kurz's  big  body  strained  forward. 
"What— is — it,  Charlie—;  this— now— ?" 

The  frown  stayed  over  his  eyes. 

"We   were  bound  to  come  together   again,   old 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL  29 

Otto.  You  and  I  were  pretty  good  pals  back  there 
at  your  university.  What  a  time  we  two  had  to 
gether  !  And  old  Mutter  Schwegel !  How  old  Mut 
ter  Schwegel  fussed  over  us!  How  she  took  care  of 
us!  It  all  seems  like  yesterday — !" 

Kurz  got  out  of  his  chair. 

"Old  Mutter  Schwegel — ;"  he  muttered. 

"Dear  old  Mutter  Schwegel !" 

Kurz's  eyes  stole  away  from  his  face. 

"Later — I  shall  tell  you  of  Mutter  Schwegel  too." 

"And  the  talks  we  used  to  have — !  The  night 
long  talks.  We  settled  the  affairs  of  the  world 
nicely  in  those  days.  Didn't  we,  old  Otto?" 

"The — affairs — of — the — world — " 

"And  old  Mutter  Schwegel  coming  in  to  put  out 
the  light.  And  then  standing  there  to  hear  what  we 
had  to  say  of  life  and  of  death." 

"Of— life— and— of— death." 

"And  not  being  able  to  tear  herself  away  to  go 
to  bed.  She  thought  we  were  wise,  Otto.  She  used 
to  drink  in  every  word  we  said.  And  then  she'd 
scold  us  for  staying  up  all  night.  Old  Mutter 
Schwegel.  I've  thought  of  her  often — " 

Kurz  made  a  movement  toward  him. 

"And  of  me,  Charlie?—  You  had  thought  of 
me?" 

"I  say,  rather* — !  Many  a  time — when  they 
called  me  back  from  the  university — even  after  I 
went  out  to  France — I  thought  of  you." 

His  mind  was  muddled  a  bit.  He  put  it  down  to 
the  excitement  of  his  coming  home.  That  uncertain 


3o  THE  SCARECROW 

feeling  came  over  him  again  quite  strongly.  But 
he  had  thought  of  Otto.  He  remembered  he  had 
thought  of  Otto  a  lot. 

"And  what  was  it  you  thought  of  me,  Charlie?" 

It  came  back  to  him  that  there  had  been  one  time 
when  he  had  thought  of  Otto  particularly.  That 
one  time  when  something  tremendous  had  happened 
to  him.  He  could  not  quite  think  what.  He  knew 
he  had  been  glad  when  he  thought  of  Otto  because 
he  had  been  spared  inflicting  the  thing  on  him. 

He  could  not  get  it  clear. 

He  avoided  looking  at  Kurz. 

"Why — ;  why,  I  wondered  what  you  were  doing. 
All  that  sort  of  thing.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes.  I  know.  I  did  go  into  the  army,  Charlie. 
It  was  that  sort  of  thing  you  meant,  Charlie?" 

He  felt  himself  start. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  do  that;"  he  said  invol 
untarily. 

"Yes.     I,  too,  was  afraid." 

Kurz's  voice  was  low. 

"You?    Afraid?" 

"Ach,  Charlie! — You  know  it.  The  fear  it  was 
not  for  myself!" 

He  walked  over  to  the  window.  He  stood  there 
looking  down  at  the  huge  boxwood  hedges  looming 
in  thick  gray  bulks  up  from  the  smudging  reach  of 
the  heavily  matted  shadows. 

He  turned. 

"You  funked  meeting  me — in — war?" 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL  31 

"Ach ! — God  forbid ! — That — I — should — meet 
— you — in — war — !" 

"I  too;"  he  said  it  quickly.  "I  too  was  afraid 
that  I  should  come  upon  you.  It  haunted  me — ;  that 
fear  I  might  harm  you.  It  stayed  with  me — ;  day 
and  night.  I  shouldn't  want  to  hurt  you,  Otto.  I 
— I  prayed."  It  came  back  to  him  how  often  he  had 
prayed  it.  "I  always  prayed  that  it  might  never 
be  you!" 

uYes— ;  I  know." 

He  went  and  stood  close  beside  Kurz.  He  found 
himself  staring  at  Kurz  intently. 

"But  you're  here; — in  England.  I  say,  did  they 
make  you  a  prisoner?  Could  my  people  get  parole 
for  you?" 

uNo.  I  do  not  think  they  do  that  here  in  your 
country.  I  do — not — need — parole,  Charlie." 

"I  thought  perhaps — " 

"No—!" 

"But  how  did  you  get  here,  then?" 

"Charlie — ;  Charlie ! — ach ! — will — you — not — 
then — wait?" 

"Come,  come,  old  Otto.  YouVe  got  something 
to  tell  me.  If  you  don't  want  to  say  how  you  got 
here,  why,  all  right.  Only,  you'd  best  get  it  off 
your  mind.  Whatever  it  is  you'd  better  come  out 
and  say  what  you  came  to  say." 

Kurz  slid  back  into  the  chair  again. 

The  room  was  still.     Heavy  with  silence. 

"Yes.  I'll  tell  you— if  I  can.  Charlie,  it  is  hard 
to  say." 


32  THE  SCARECROW 

He  tried  to  help  Kurz. 

"It's  about  this  war  of  ours;  that's  it,  isn't  it?" 

"About  the  war?    Yes— !" 

"Then  tell  me." 

He  saw  Kurz's  massive  shoulders  jerking. 

"How — can — I — tell — you — ?  I  do  not  think 
you  understand.  I  do  not  even  know  if  it  is  what 
I  think  it  is.  I  cannot  reason  it  out  to  myself.  The 
power  of  reasoning  has  left  me.  I  had  no  other 
knowledge  than  my  reasoning.  I  do  not  know. 
Now,  I  do  not  know  where  I  am — or — what — I — 
am:—" 

The  maddened  urge  of  Kurz's  words  struck  him. 

"You're  here,  old  Otto;"  he  said  it  reassuringly. 
"Here  with  me.  In  my  room.  In  England.  You're 
with  me,  Otto!" 

"Yes — with — you."  And  then  beneath  his  breath 
he  whispered:  "Where — are — you — ?" 

He  caught  the  smothered  insistence  of  that  last 
sentence.  He  smiled,  forcing  his  lips  to  smile. 

"Standing  right  in  front  of  you,  old  man.  Wait 
ing  for  you  to  say  what  you  came  to — " 

Kurz  interrupted  him. 

"I — had — to  come.  I  felt  that  I  must  come.  I 
— came,  Charlie.  I  got  myself  here,  Charlie." 

"Quite  right,  Otto." 

"I  want  you  to  know  first  that  I  thought  of  you. 
That  I  was,  as  you  say  you  were,  afraid  I  might  in 
some  way  injure  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  first." 

"Good  old  sentimental  Otto!" 

"Sentimental? — Ach! — I     am     not     sentimental. 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL  33 

But  I  do  not  think  you  can  understand  how  much  you 
were  to  me  back  there  at  the  university.  I  do  not 
think  you  yourself  knew  how  much  you  joyed  in 
things.  How  happy  your  kind  of  thought  made 
you." 

He  laughed. 

"I  always  managed  to  have  a  rather  corking  time 
of  it,"  he  admitted. 

"You  loved  everything  so,"  Kurz  went  on.  "At 
night  when  we  talked  it  was  you  who  believed  in 
what  you  said.  It  was  you  who  saw  so  clearly  how 
^vell  all  things  of  life  were  meant.  It  was  always 
I  who  questioned." 

"But,  I  say,  old  Otto,  your  mind  was  so  quick; 
so  brilliant.  You  could  pick  flaws  where  I  never 
knew  they  existed." 

"It  was  you  who  had  so  much  of  faith,  Charlie." 

"How  we  did  talk;"  he  said  it  to  himself.  "Talk 
and  talk  until  old  Mutter  Schwegel,  who  was  so  keen 
for  us,  grew  tired  of  listening  and  came  and  turned 
out  the  lamp." 

"And  how  you  spoke  ever  of  your  beliefs,"  Kurz's 
voice  was  hoarse.  "It  was  so  easy  for  you  to  know. 
You  never  questioned.  You  believed.  It  ended 
there,  with  your  belief.  You  were  so  near  to  what 
you  thought.  It  was  a  part  of  you.  I — I  stood 
away  from  all  things  and  from  myself.  I  would 
tell  you  that  the  mind  should  reason.  I  stayed  out 
side  with  my  criticism,  while  you — ach,  Charlie! — 
How  you  did  know!" 

"And  how  you  laughed  at  me  for  that!" 


34  THE  SCARECROW 

"But  now,  I  do  not  laugh!"  Kurz  protested  with 
wearied  eagerness.  "Now  I  come  to  you.  I  ask 
you  if  you  know  those  things — now?" 

"What  things,  Otto?" 

"The  things  of  life.    The  things  of  death." 

"I  know  what  I  always  knew,"  he  said  slowly. 
"I  know  that  life  is  meant  to  live  fully  and  un- 
derstandingly  and  that  death  is  meant  to  live  on; 
fully  and  understandingly." 

4  'And — you — do — understand — now?" 

"I  understand  that  always." 

"You  would  not  be  afraid?" 

"Of  what?" 

"Of— death?" 

"No." 

He  stared  out  of  the  window. 

The  dense,  opaque  shadows  pressing  down  on 
the  garden.  The  shadows  hanging  loose  and  thick 
on  the  high,  boxwood  hedges.  The  dark,  smooth, 
night  sky. 

And  suddenly  a  faint  tremor  ran  through  him 
from  head  to  foot.  He  pressed  his  face  close  to 
the  glass.  His  hands  went  up  screening  a  small 
space  for  his  eyes. 

In  the  still  block  of  shadows,  in  the  black  mass 
of  them,  he  had  seen  something;  something  had 
moved  against  the  quiet  clumping  shadows. 

"I  say,"  he  whispered.  "There's  some  one  com 
ing  up  through  the  garden." 

"Yes— yes." 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time. 


MUTTER  SCHWEGEL  35 

Once  he  looked  at  Kurz  huddled  in  the  arm 
chair;  his  face  white  and  drawn;  his  eyes  staring 
before  him. 

He  thought  he  heard  footsteps  coming  softly 
up  the  stairs;  footsteps  that  came  lightly  and  hesi 
tated  and  then  came  on  again. 

"Charlie—!"  Kurz  stammered.     "Charlie— !" 

He  felt  that  some  one  was  standing  in  the  open 
doorway. 

He  turned. 

His  eyes  took  in  the  well  known  figure.  The 
sweet  face  with  its  red  cheeks  and  its  framing  white 
hair.  The  short  body.  The  blue  eyes  that  were 
fixed  on  him. 

"Mutter  Schwegel!"    He  shouted. 

Kurz  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"What!" 

He  started  for  the  door. 

"Mutter  Schwegel,  who  would  have  thought  of 
your  coming  here.  It  has  been  a  long  time.  I  say! 
—But  I  am  glad." 

"Stop — !"     Kurz's  voice  thundered  behind  him. 

He  wheeled  to  look  at  Kurz. 

Kurz's  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  woman  standing 
in  the  doorway. 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  Mutter  Schwegel?"  He 
asked.  "When  we've  been  talking  of  her  all  night?" 

Kurz  was  muttering  to  himself. 

"Mutter — Schwegel — ;"  Kurz  mumbled.  "Mut 
ter  Schwegel — I  It — is — that — I — wanted — to — 
tell — you — about — Mutter  Schwegel.  It — is — as 


36  THE  SCARECROW 

I — thought.  It — is — ach ! — it — is — then — that — 
way — with — us — ! ' ' 

He  felt  that  the  woman  was  coming  into  the 
room. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"Mutter — Schwegel — is — dead;"  Kurz  stam 
mered. 

He  saw  that  the  old  woman  smiled. 

"She — is — dead.      Dead — !"      Kurz    mumbled. 

He  smiled  back  at  her. 

"Dead — ;"   Kurz's  voice  droned  shaking. 

He  saw  the  old  woman  go  to  the  table. 

He  and  Kurz  watched  her  take  the  lamp  up  in 
her  hands.  He  and  Kurz  saw  her  fingers  fumbling 
at  the  wick.  Kurz's  quivering  face  stood  out  in 
the  lamplight.  The  old  woman  was  smiling 
quietly. 

They  saw  her  try  to  put  out  the  light. 

The  lamp  still  burned. 

"Mutter — Schwegel — is — dead — !"  Kurz's  voice 
quavered;  and  then  it  screamed.  "Dead — ,"  he 
shrieked ;  "we — are — all — of — us — dead — !" 

That  uncertain  feeling  came  over  him.  And  sud 
denly  it  went  quite  from  him. 


HAUNTED 


HAUNTED 

HE  lived  quite  alone  in  the  stone  built  shanty 
perched  on  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  great 
sun  bleached  chalk  cliffs.  All  about  him,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach,  lay  the  flat,  salt  marshes  with 
their  dank,  yellowed  grasses.  Against  the  inland 
horizon  three,  gaunt,  thin-foliaged  trees  reared 
themselves  from  the  monotonously  even  soil.  Over 
head  the  cloud  splotched  blue  gray  sky,  and  below 
him  the  changing,  motion  pulled,  current  swirling 
depths  of  the  blue  green  sea.  And  at  all  times  of 
the  day  and  the  night,  the  wild  whirring  of  the  sea 
gulls'  wings  and  the  uncanny  inhuman  piercing  sound 
of  their  shrieking. 

He  had  lived  there  since  that  day  when  the  fish 
erman  had  pulled  him  half  drowned  out  of  the  sea. 
He  could  never  remember  where  he  had  come  from, 
or  what  had  happened.  All  that  he  ever  knew  was 
that  far  out  by  the  nets  in  the  early  morning  they 
had  come  upon  him  and  had  brought  him  in  to  shore. 
Naturally,  the  fishermen  had  questioned  him;  but 
his  vagueness,  his  absolute  lack  of  belief  that  he 
had  ever  been  anything  before  they  had  snatched 
him  from  the  waters,  had  frightened  them  so  that 
since  that  day  they  had  left  him  severely  alone.  Fish 
ing  folk  have  strange,  superstitious  ideas  about  cer- 

39 


40  THE  SCARECROW 

tain  things.  He  had  borne  the  full  weight  of  their 
credulous  awe.  Perhaps  because  he,  himself, 
thought  as  they  thought.  That  he  was  something 
come  from  the  sea,  and  of  the  sea,  and  always  be 
longing  to  the  sea. 

He  had  built  himself  the  stone  shanty  upon  the 
highest  pinnacle  of  those  waste  grown  chalk  cliffs; 
and  he  had  stayed  on  and  on,  year  in  and  year  out, 
close  there  to  the  sea. 

In  winter  for  a  livelihood  he  made  baskets  from 
the  reeds  he  had  picked  in  the  swamps  about  him. 
In  the  summer  he  sold  the  vegetables  he  grew  in 
the  tiny  truck  garden  behind  his  house.  Somehow 
he  managed  to  eke  out  a  living. 

The  fishing  folk  in  the  small  village  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliffs  saw  him  come  and  go  along  their  nar 
row  streets,  morose  and  taciturn.  He  never  spoke 
to  any  of  them  unless  he  had  to.  They  in  their 
turn  avoided  him  with  their  habitual  superstitious 
uneasiness.  He  went  to  and  fro  between  his  shanty 
and  the  village  store  when  the  need  arose.  The  rest 
of  the  time  he  sat  in  front  of  his  iron  bolted  door 
staring  and  staring  down  at  the  sea. 

Daybreak  and  noon.  Evening  and  night  he  sat 
there. 

When  the  sky  above  was  tinged  with  the  first 
streaking  colors  of  the  dawn  he  watched  the  ghostly 
gray  expanse  of  the  ocean.  When  the  sun  was  high 
in  the  heavens  he  looked  steadily  at  the  light-flecked 
spotted  swells  of  the  waves.  When  the  shadows 
began  to  creep  up  from  the  earth  he  stared  at  the 


HAUNTED  41 

greater  blackness  that  swam  in  glistening  undulat 
ing  darkness  to  him  from  across  the  water.  And 
at  night  his  eyes  strained  through  the  fitful  gloom 
at  the  pitchy,  turbulent  sea. 

It  was  like  that  in  all  kinds  of  weather.  The 
spring  tides,  with  their  quick  changes  from  calm  to 
storm,  and  the  slender  silver  crescent  of  the  new 
moon  hanging  just  above  the  horizon.  The  long 
summer  laziness  of  the  green  ocean  with  its  later 
gigantic  flame-red  moons  and  the  wide  yellow  streak 
of  phosphorescent  light  that  streamed  in  moving  rip 
ples  to  him;  the  chill,  lashing  spray  in  autumn.  The 
foam-covered  seething  breadth  of  it  in  winter  when 
the  blackness  of  the  low  night  skies  and  the  dark 
ness  of  the  high  tides  were  as  one  menacing  roaring 
turmoil  churning  itself  into  white  spumed  frenzy. 
It  always  held  him. 

He  was  a  man  of  one  idea:  The  sea.  He  was  a 
man  who  drew  his  life  from  one  source:  The  sea. 
It  had  taken  his  body  and  had  tried  to  drown  it;  the 
sea  had  for  that  short  time  caught  and  gripped  his 
soul.  The  slimy,  wet  touch  of  it  was  seared  into 
him. 

It  fascinated  him;  it  kept  him  near  it  so  that 
he  could  not  have  gotten  away  from  it,  had  he  had 
the  courage  to  want  to  get  away.  It  kept  him 
there  as  though  he  belonged  to  it;  as  though  it 
knew  he  belonged  to  it;  and  knew  that  he  knew  it. 
And  always  and  ever  the  sea  haunted  him. 

The  fishing  men  coming  home  late  at  night  across 
the  water  had  grown  used  to  steering  their  course 


42  THE  SCARECROW 

by  the  unreal  light  that  trickled  out  to  them  from 
the  shanty  on  the  top  of  the  cliffs.  And  in  the  dawn 
when  they  pushed  their  smacks  off  from  the  long, 
hard  beach  to  sail  out  to  the  nets,  they  knew  that 
from  the  high  precipices  above  them  the  man  was 
watching. 

And  outwardly  they  laughed  at  him;  even  when 
in  their  hearts  they  feared  the  thing  they  thought 
he  was. 

They  could  not  understand  him.  They,  who 
made  their  living  from  the  sea,  could  not  understand 
how  he  could  be  content  to  live  the  way  he  was  liv 
ing.  They  could  not  have  known  that  he  would  in 
finitely  rather  have  died  than  to  have  taken  one 
thing  from  out  the  sea  from  which  he  had  already 
filched  his  soul. 

His  enslavement  by  it  had  made  him  understand  it 
a  lot  better  than  they  understood  it. 

And  so  he  lived  the  stupid,  hypnotized  life  of  one 
who  is  held  so  enchained  and  cowed  that  he  could 
not  think  for  himself,  or  of  himself.  Until  that  day 
when  he  first  met  Sally. 

It  was  a  sunny  day  late  in  the  autumn  that  he  stood 
in  front  of  the  weather  beaten  wooden  hut  of  the 
village  store,  his  arms  filled  with  baskets.  And  as 
he  stood  there,  Sally  Walsh  came  from  the  store  and 
out  into  the  street. 

She  had  seen  the  man  a  hundred  times  but  she  had 
never  seen  him  so  close.  She  stopped  short  and 
stared  quite  frankly  at  the  bigness  of  him;  at  the 
heavily  matted  hair  clinging  so  damply  to  his  fore- 


HAUNTED  43 

head;  and  at  the  white  face  so  strange  to  her  beside 
the  sun-burned  faces  she  had  always  seen.  It  was 
when,  quite  suddenly,  he  looked  at  her  and  she  saw 
the  odd  blue  green  sea  colored  eyes  of  him,  that  she 
started  to  hurry  on. 

She  had  gotten  half  way  down  the  street  when  he 
overtook  her. 

"D'you  want — anything  of — me?"  He  asked  it, 
his  blue  green  eyes  going  quickly  over  her  slight 
form,  her  small  face,  and  resting  for  a  second  curi 
ously  upon  her  masses  of  coiled  golden  hair. 

«I_?  why— no." 

"You  sure?" 

"Sure." 

She  went  on  her  way  again  and  he  stood  there 
watching  her  go;  then  he  turned  abruptly  and 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  store. 

It  was  not  so  long  after  that  when  he  met  her  for 
the  second  time. 

She  was  on  her  knees  in  the  yard  in  front  of  her 
father's  house  mending  the  tar-covered  fishing  nets 
with  quick  deft  fingers.  He  stopped  at  the  gate. 
Feeling  the  intensity  of  his  blue  green  eyes  upon  her, 
she  looked  up  and  saw  him. 

She  got  to  her  feet. 

"It's  a  nice  morning." 

She  spoke  to  him  first. 

"Yes";  he  said, 

"You  live  up  there?"  She  pointed  a  bare  browned 
arm  up  toward  the  sun  bleached  chalk  cliffs.  "By 
yourself?" 


44  THE  SCARECROW 

"Yes," 

"You  ain't  got  a  boat?" 

"No." 

"They  say  you  don't  ever  fish.  Why  don't  you, 
Mister?" 

"I— I  ain't  the  one  to  fish." 

"Want  to  help  me  with  these  here  nets?" 

"I— I  can't  do— that." 

"It  ain't  hard,  Mister." 

"I_can't—do—it." 

"Come  on  in;  I'll  show  you  how." 

He  opened  the  gate  and  went  into  the  yard  and 
then  he  stood  there  just  looking  down  at  her. 

"I  wouldn't  touch — no — net — " 

Her  brows  drew  together  in  a  puzzled  frown. 

"You  mean  you  don't  like  fishing?" 

Somehow  he  did  not  want  her  to  know. 

"I — ain't — the — one — to  take — no — sea-thing — 
away — from — the — sea." 

"Oh;"  she  said,  not  understanding. 

They  were  silent  a  moment. 

"You  sell  baskets  ?"    She  asked  him. 

"D'you  want  one?" 

"Mebbe.     Got  a  medium-sized  one?" 

"Got  a  lot." 

"Mebbe — I — could — use — one." 

"I'd  like  mighty  well  to — to  give  you  one,  little 
girl" 

"Why,  I  ain't  a  little  girl,  Mister.  I — I  thought — 
I'd  mebbe— buy— " 

He  interrupted  her. 


1 1 AUNTED  45 

"You'll  not  buy  one  off  of  me.  I'll  bring  you  one 
— ;  if  you  like." 

"A  medium-sized  one." 

"I'll  bring  it  to  you — ;  to-morrow." 

'Thanks." 

"Good-by,  little  girl." 

uGood-by,  Mister." 

At  the  end  of  the  street  he  turned  to  look  back. 

She  was  on  her  knees  working  at  her  mending  of 
the  nets  again.  She  looked  very  small  kneeling  there 
on  the  hard  brown  earth  with  the  straggling  lines  of 
squat  weather  darkened  shanties  trailing  behind  her 
out  onto  the  edge  of  the  yellow  sanded  beach,  and 
the  clear  unbroken  blue  of  the  autumn  skies  above. 
She  glanced  up  and  then  she  waved  her  hand  at  him. 

He  went  slowly  along  the  narrow  pathway  that 
wound  through  the  sharp  crevices  of  the  chalk  cliffs 
to  the  back  of  his  own  stone  built  shanty. 

That  night  he  stood  staring  out  at  the  sea.  The 
moon  was  on  the  wane.  It  hung  very  low  in  the  sky 
so  that  the  red-gold  streak  of  it  seemed  to  dip  into 
the  water.  A  cold  northeast  wind  lashed  over  the 
waves.  Dark  swollen  purplish  clouds  raced  together 
in  an  angry  mass.  The  sea  itself  was  black  but  for 
the  tossing  gigantic  waves  with  their  dead  white 
crests  of  spraying  foam.  The  pounding  of  them  on 
the  beach  below  him  vibrated  in  his  ears.  The  sea 
gulls  were  flying  heavily  close  to  the  earth;  their  in 
human,  piercing  shrieking  filling  the  air. 

The  little  girl  had  spoken  to  him. 

He  turned  from  the  sea  then.     He  went  into  his 


46  THE  SCARECROW 

shanty.  He  bolted  the  great  iron  bolts  of  the  door 
and  braced  himself  against  it  as  if  he  were  shutting 
something  out;  something  that  he  feared;  some 
thing  that  was  certain  to  come  after  him.  He 
crouched  there  shivering  and  shuddering.  The 
pounding  of  the  sea  was  in  his  ears.  The  wind  that 
came  from  the  ocean  whistled  and  wailed  shrilly 
around  and  around  the  house.  He  leaned  there ; 
his  back  to  the  door;  his  hands  pressing  stiff  fingered 
against  it;  his  lips  moving,  mumbling  dumbly.  His 
eyes,  the  color  of  the  sea,  stared  blindly  before  him. 
The  rumbling  roar  of  the  rising  tide;  the  thundering 
boom  of  it.  And  in  the  sudden  lull  of  the  wind  the 
hiss  of  the  seething  spray. 

The  sea  was  angry. 

He  thought  with  a  kind  of  paralyzing  terror  that 
it  was  angry  with  him.  It  was  calling  to  him. 
The  lashing  of  the  big  waves  demanded  him.  The 
sonorous  drumming  of  it.  He  had  never  before  de 
nied  its  call.  The  persistent  thudding  of  it  there  at 
the  base  of  the  chalk  cliffs.  It  was  insisting  that  he 
belonged  to  it.  The  inhuman  piercing  shrieks  of  the 
circling  sea-gulls  mocked  him.  They  knew  that  he 
belonged  to  the  sea.  How  could  he  even  think  of 
that  golden  haired  little  girl  who  had  spoken  to 
him — 

The  sea  was  angry. 

He  tore  at  the  iron  bolts  and  flinging  the  door 
wide  open  he  rushed  out  to  the  edge  of  the  chalk 
cliffs.  And  as  he  stood  there  the  clouds  dwindled 
in  a  vaporous  haze  away  from  the  skies.  The  thin 


HAUNTED  47 

red-gold  line  of  the  waning  moon  grew  brighter. 
The  sea  lay  foam  flecked  and  calm  beneath  the  dark 
heavens.  And  at  the  base  of  the  chalk  cliffs  the 
water  lapped  and  lapped  with  a  strange  insidious 
sound. 

And  the  next  day  he  sat  there  in  front  of  his 
shanty,  his  reeds  in  his  hands,  his  fingers  busy  with 
his  basket  weaving;  making  big  baskets  and  small 
baskets;  and  his  eyes,  blue  green  and  strained,  were 
fixed  on  the  tranquil  blue  green  of  the  water  below 
him. 

For  two  days  he  sat  there  in  front  of  his  iron 
bolted  door  that  now  swung  wide  open  on  its  rusty 
hinges. 

The  third  day  he  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the 
precipice. 

It  was  a  gray  fog  drenched  day.  The  mist 
dripped  all  about  him.  The  opaque  veil  of  it  shut 
out  everything  in  wet  obliteration.  He  stood  quite 
still  knowing  that  beneath  its  dank  dribbling  thick 
ness,  the  sea  churned  wildly  in  its  rising  tide. 

And  standing  there  motionless  he  heard  a  voice 
calling  through  the  quiet  denseness  of  the  fog.  A 
voice  coming  from  a  distance  and  muffled  by  the 
mist.  He  started.  It  was  her  voice  calling  to  him 
from  the  narrow  pathway  that  wound  up  the  chalk 
cliffs  to  the  back  of  his  shanty. 

"Mister — oh,  Mister." 

He  reached  his  hand  out  in  front  of  him  trying  to 
break  the  saturating  cover  of  the  fog.  He  went 
stumbling  unseeingly  toward  the  rear  of  the  house. 


48  THE  SCARECROW 

"Mister — oh,  Mister." 

The  rear  of  the  shanty.  His  feet  sank  down  into 
the  turned  soil  of  the  truck  garden.  He  stood  still. 

"Here." 

"Mister;"  the  voice  of  her  was  nearer.  "Where 
are — you — •?" 

He  could  not  see  in  front  of  him.  He  felt  that 
she  was  close. 

"Here;— little  girl." 

He  saw  the  faint  outline  of  her  shadow  then 
through  the  obliterating  denseness  of  the  mist. 

"Some  fog;  ain't  it,  Mister?" 

"Stay  where — you  are.     There's  the  precipice." 

"I  ain't  afraid  of  no  precipice." 

"Stay — where — you — are !" 

He  could  hear  the  dripping  of  the  mist  over  the 
window  ledges.  And  then  he  thought  he  heard, 
smothered  by  the  weight  of  the  fog,  the  pounding  of 
the  sea. 

"You  surprised  to  see  me?  But  you  ain't  able 
to  see  me.  Are  you?" 

"No." 

"You  ain't  surprised?" 

Down  there  at  the  base  of  the  chalk  cliffs  the  sea 
was  still;  waiting. 

"You — shouldn't — have — come." 

"Why — you  don't  mean; — you  ain't  trying  to  tell 
me  ? — you — don't — want — me — here  ?" 

Great  beads  of  moisture  trickled  down  across  his 
eyes. 


HAUNTED  49 

"Little  girl — ;  I  just  said  you  shouldn't  have 
come.  Not  up  here  in  this  kind  of  weather." 

"Oh,  the  weather!"  She  laughed.  "I  ain't  the 
one  to  mind  the  weather,  Mister." 

Again  he  reached  his  hand  out  in  front  of  him  in 
an  effort  to  rend  the  suffocating  thickness  of  the  fog. 
His  fingers  touched  her  arm  and  closed  over  it. 
From  below  him  came  the  repeated  warning  roar 
of  the  waves. 

"Can  you  find  your  way  home — by  yourself — lit 
tle  girl?" 

"I  ain't  going  home,  Mister; — not  yet.  I  came  up 
here  to  get  that  basket  you  said  you  had  for  me;  you 
know,  the  medium  sized  one." 

"I'll  give  it  to  you — now." 

Her  hand  caught  at  his  hand  that  lay  on  her  arm, 
Her  fingers  fastened  themselves  around  his  and  held 
tightly.  He  had  never  felt  anything  like  that.  The 
touch  of  them  was  cool  and  fresh,  like  sea  weed  that 
had  just  drifted  in  from  the  sea. 

And  then  from  far  off  across  the  water  came  the 
shrill,  piercing  shriek  of  a  gull. 

He  felt  her  start. 

"That's  only  a  sea-gull,  little  girl." 

"I  know,  Mister.  But  don't  it  sound  strange;  al 
most  as  if  it  were  the  sea  itself;  calling  for  some 
thing." 

For  a  second  he  could  not  speak. 

"Why — ;"  his  voice  was  hoarse,  "Why  d'you  say 
that?" 


50  THE  SCARECROW 

"I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  get  to  feeling 
mighty  queer  about  that  water  out  there." 

"You  mean — ;  why — you  ain't  afraid  of  it,  little 
girl,  are  you?" 

"Afraid?  There  ain't  nothing  that  I'm  afraid 
of,  Mister.  Why,  I'd  go  anywhere  and  not  be 
afraid—" 

He  repeated  her  words  very  slowly  to  himself. 

"You'd  —  go  —  anywhere  i —  and  —  not  —  be  — 
afraid—" 

He  thought  then  that  the  fog  was  lifting.  A 
sickly,  yellowish  glow  filtered  through  the  heavy 
grayness.  He  could  see  her  more  distinctly. 

"There's  only  one  thing  about  the  sea,  Mister, 
that'd  scare  me,  and  that's — " 

She  broke  off  abruptly. 

"What,  little  girl?" 

"Why,  Mister;  why,  I  can't  hardly  say  it.  But 
there's  Pa  and  there's  my  brother,  Will.  If  any 
thing  ever  happened — ;  if  the  sea  ever  did  any 
thing  to  Pa  or  Will,  why — I  guess,  Mister,  I'd  just 
die." 

"Don't !"  He  said  quickly.  "Don't  you  talk  like 
that." 

For  a  second  they  were  silent. 

The  sun  was  breaking  through  the  dwindling 
thickness  of  the  mist.  He  could  see  it  lifting  in  a 
faint  gray  line,  uncovering  the  reach  of  the  flat  salt 
marshes  with  their  dnnk  yellowed  grasses;  a  thin 
silver  net  of  it  hung  for  a  second  between  the  sky 
and  the  earth,  and  was  gone. 


HAUNTED  51 

From  the  base  of  the  chalk  cliffs  came  the  sound 
of  the  sea  lapping  and  lapping  with  insistent  cunning. 

She  dropped  his  hand  and  she  stood  there  looking 
up  to  him,  scanning  his  white  face  with  those  child 
like  eyes  of  hers. 

"You  live  up  here  because  of  the  sea,  Mister?" 

"Yes." 

"You  ever  feel  the  sea's  something — alive,  like 
you  and  me?" 

"You— feel— that— too  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "and  I  knew  you  felt  it, 
because  the  first  time  I  saw  you — why — you're  some 
how — something  like  the  sea." 

His  hands  clinched  at  his  sides.  His  breath  came 
in  quick  rasping  gasps. 

"I'll  get  your  basket,"  he  muttered. 

He  rushed  into  his  one  room  shanty  and  caught 
Xip  the  basket  nearest  to  him  and  went  out  again  to 
her. 

She  took  the  basket  from  him  in  silence.  She 
slipped  the  handle  of  it  on  to  her  arm.  Her  hands 
rubbed  against  each  other;  the  fingers  of  them  twin 
ing  and  intertwining. 

"I'll  be  going  now,  Mister." 

"Yes." 

"I've  got  to  be  getting  home  before  Pa  and  Will 
go  out  to  the  nets." 

"Good-by,  little  girl." 

"Good-by,  Mister;  and — thanks." 

He  stood  there  and  watched  her  go  from  the  back 
of  his  stone  built  shanty  down  the  narrow  winding 


52  THE  SCARECROW 

path  that  lay  along  the  sun  bleached  chalk  cliffs. 
She  went  quickly  and  lightly  down  the  steep  incline, 
her  small  slender  figure  in  its  blue  print  dress,  with 
the  sun  bringing  out  the  burnished  glints  in  her 
golden  hair.  His  eyes  strained  after  her.  In  a  short 
while  he  lost  her  from  sight. 

He  went  back  to  his  basket  making  then. 

And  as  he  sat  there,  his  fingers  weaving  and  bend 
ing  the  supple  reeds,  mechanically  working  them  into 
shape,  he  tried  to  shut  out  all  thought  of  her;  to  feel 
as  though  she  had  never  come  to  him;  to  rivet  his  at 
tention  upon  the  insistent  pounding  of  the  sea  that 
hurled  itself  again  and  again  at  the  base  of  the 
chalk  cliffs ;  calling  and  calling  to  him. 

After  a  while  the  early  deep  blue  dusk  of  the 
twilight  came. 

He  got  stiffly  to  his  feet. 

The  long  moving  shadows  were  quivering  in  fan 
tastic  purpled  patterns  on  the  ground  about  him. 
Great  daubs  of  them  clung  in  the  crevices  of  the 
chalk  cliffs.  A  mat  of  shadows  crept  over  the  flat 
salt  marshes  and  through  the  dank  yellowed  grasses. 
There  was  a  sudden  chill  in  the  wind  that  came  to 
him  from  off  the  water.  A  flock  of  screeching  sea 
gulls  wildly  beating  their  wings,  rose  from  the  cliffs 
and  whirred  out  toward  the  open  sea,  the  uncanny 
piercing  sound  of  their  shrieking  coming  deafeningly 
back  to  him. 

He  stood  there  staring  at  the  ocean,  his  head  well 
back;  his  nostrils  dilated;  his  blue  green  eyes 
strangely  wide. 


HAUNTED  5;> 

Far  in  the  distance  against  the  graying  horizon 
he  could  see  the  choppy  white  capped  waves  racing 
over  the  smooth  dark  water.  Even  as  he  looked  the 
sea  began  to  rise  in  great  swollen  billows.  The  wind 
too  was  rising.  He  could  hear  the  distant  cry  of  it. 

His  heart  began  to  thump  wildly.  He  knew  what 
was  going  to  happen;  just  as  he  always  knew.  He 
could  feel  what  the  sea  was  going  to  do. 

He  stood  there  undecided. 

A  quick  picture  came  to  him  of  the  storm. 

He  had  seen  it  all  before.  He  had  stood  there  on 
the  chalk  cliffs  and  watched  it  all:  Watched  the 
shattered  broken  logs;  the  swirling  sucking  water. 
The  sea  had  held  him  under  its  spell;  had  compelled 
him  to  witness  its  maddened,  infuriated  stalking  of 
its  prey. 

Her  people  were  out  there.  Her  Pa  and  her 
Will.  Why  had  she  told  him  that?  Why  had  she 
said  if  anything  ever  happened  to  them  she  would 
die?  Why? 

He  could  just  make  out  the  stiff  sticks  of  the  nets 
reaching  thin  and  dark  from  the  surface  of  the  gray 
water  against  the  lighter  gray  skies;  and  the  boats 
rowing  toward  them.  The  boats  with  the  fishermen. 
He  could  see  the  slender  patches  of  them  rising  and 
falling  with  the  waves,  going  slowly  to  the  nets.  He 
could  distinguish  the  small,  dark  shadows  of  the 
men,  rowing.  They  had  pulled  him  out  of  the  sea 
in  that  early  morning;  he  who  was  something  come 
from  the  sea,  and  of  the  sea;  and  always  belonging 
to  the  sea. 


54  THE  SCARECROW 

To — betray — the — sea — 

The  waves  were  racing  in  to  the  shore.  The 
thumping,  deafening  boom  of  them  there  at  the  base 
of  the  chalk  cliffs  below  him. 

He  tried  to  tear  his  eyes  away  from  it.  It  held 
him  as  it  ever  held  him.  It  kept  him  there  as  though 
he  belonged  to  it.  As  though  it  knew  he  belonged  to 
it;  and  knew  that  he  knew  it.  A  strange  uneasiness 
arose  within  him.  Even  before  he  was  conscious 
of  it,  he  felt  that  the  sea  had  sensed  it.  Its  insistent 
angry  pounding  threatened  him. 

She  had  said  that  she  would  die. 

Below  him  the  swirling,  churning  sea. 

He  turned  then  and  went  very  slowly  down  the 
narrow,  winding  path  that  led  along  the  sun 
bleached  chalk  cliffs.  Through  the  deep  blue  dusk 
of  the  evening  he  went,  and  the  gray  blotched  reach 
of  the  flat  salt  marshes  with  their  dank  yellowed 
grasses  lay  all  about  him;  and  overhead  the  cloud 
spotted,  moving  gray  of  the  sky,  and  beneath  him 
the  raging  sea  that  called  to  him;  and  called. 

He  never  stopped  until  he  came  to  the  weather 
darkened  shanty  where  she  lived. 

He  paused  then  at  the  gate. 

A  lighted  lamp  was  in  one  of  the  windows  on  the 
ground  floor.  The  soft  glow  of  it  streamed  in  a 
long  ladder  of  light  out  to  him  in  the  darkness. 

He  opened  the  gate  and  went  haltingly  across  the 
yard,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  he  knocked  at 
the  door. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  street  the  sea  thudded  over 


HAUNTED  55 

the  yellow  sanded  beach;  the  pale  stretch  of  it  com 
ing  out  of  the  grayness  in  a  long  white  line. 

She  answered  his  knock. 

The  light  from  the  lamp  swept  through  the  open 
doorway. 

Something  in  his  face  terrified  her;  something 
that  she  had  never  before  seen  in  those  blue  green 
eyes,  the  color  of  the  sea. 

"What  is  it?     What's  happened?" 

He  stood  there  just  looking  down  at  her. 

"Oh,  Mister,  tell  me;  please — what  is  it?" 

Her  two  hands  went  up  to  her  throat  and  caught 
tightly  at  her  neck. 

"There's— a— storm— " 

She  looked  out  into  the  quiet,  darkening  evening. 

"A  storm?" 

"There's  a  bad  storm — ;  coming." 

He  could  hardly  say  the  words. 

She  stared  up  at  him ;  her  childlike  eyes  were  very 
wide. 

"Will  it— be— soon—  ?" 

He  never  took  his  blue  green  eyes  from  off  her 
face. 

"It's  coming — quick." 

"They're  out— Pa— and— Will." 

He  said  it  very  quietly  then. 

"That's  why  I'm  here." 

"How  can  we — get  them — back?" 

"Oh,  little  girl;"  he  muttered.     "Little  girl—" 

"How,  Mister;  how?" 

"I'll  get  a  boat/' 


56  THE  SCARECROW 

"There's  Sam  Wilkins'  smack — down  there  at 
the  wharf.  We  could  take  that." 

"Then— I'll  go— after  them." 

They  went  from  the  door  together  down  the 
street  and  out  onto  the  back  patch  of  the  wharf. 
Through  the  grayness  they  could  see  the  boat  rock 
ing  on  the  water  at  the  farther  end.  The  wail  of 
the  rising  wind;  the  pounding  of  the  sea;  and  close 
to  them  the  muffled,  bumping  sound  of  the  smack 
thrown  again  and  again  at  the  long  wooden  piles 
of  the  wharf. 

For  a  second  they  stood  quite  still. 

"I'm  going,"  he  said. 

Her  arms  went  suddenly  up  around  his  neck. 
Her  lips  brushed  across  his.  He  felt  her  body 
shivering.  He  caught  and  held  her  to  him ;  and  then 
he  let  her  go  and  went  quickly  to  the  end  of  the 
wharf  and  pulled  the  boat  alongside  and  stepped 
into  it. 

He  looked  up  at  her  standing  there  against  the 
gray  sky.  He  could  see  the  white  patches  of  her 
face  and  her  hands  and  the  pale  mass  of  her  hair 
that  the  wind  had  loosened.  And  down  through  the 
draggling  grayness  he  distinctly  saw  her  childlike 
eyes  searching  for  his. 

Before  he  could  stop  her  she  was  in  the  boat. 

"Get— back." 

"I'm  going." 

"Quick— get— back." 

"I'm  going — with — you." 

"You  can't — ;  you  don't  know." 


HAUNTED  57 

"I'm  not  afraid.     Honest — I'm — not." 

uYou  don't  know  what  it  means!" 

"I'm—not— afraid." 

"Little  girl — I  ain't  going — if  you  go." 

"You've  got — to — go." 

He  repeated  her  words. 

"I've — got — to — go." 

"If  you  don't  take  me  with  you;"  he  had  never 
heard  her  voice  like  that —  "I'll  come  out  myself. 
You  can't  leave  me — you  can't!" 

The  rain  began  then.  Great  drops  of  it  fell  into 
his  face.  The  whining  of  the  wind  was  terrific. 

"You — don't  know  what  it — means." 

"I  do  know;— oh,  God,— I  do." 

He  caught  up  his  oars  then. 

He  rowed  with  all  his  strength.  The  whole  thing 
was  so  strange  to  him.  Her  going.  Their  being 
out  on  the  water.  The  rowing. 

The  waves  rose  in  tremendous  black  swells  all 
about  them.  The  rain  and  the  spray  drenched  them. 
The  wind  rocked  the  small  boat.  The  whistling 
wail  of  it;  the  lowering  cloud  sprawled  pitchy  sky. 

He  pulled  in  silence  until  they  came  to  the  nets. 

She  stood  up  in  the  boat  and  called;  again  and 
again  her  voice  rose  into  the  wind. 

"Sit  down!"  He  told  her. 

A  distant  shout  answered  her. 

He  bent  to  his  oars  then  till  he  came  to  the 
cluster  of  smacks  on  the  other  side  of  the  nets. 

"Pa— ;"  she  cried. 

"Sally— !    What  you  doing  here  ?" 


58  THE  SCARECROW 

"Pa — ;  there's  a  storm." 

"I  can  see  that." 

"Pa — come  on  back — to  shore." 

"You  get  on  back,  Sally.    It'll  blow  over." 

She  turned  to  him  then. 

"You  tell  him;"  she  said  it  desperately.  "You — 
tell— him." 

He  waited  until  he  got  just  alongside  of  the  fishing 
smack. 

"It's  going  to  be — a — bad — one." 

He  said  it  slowly. 

He  thought  then  that  the  angry  swirling  of  the 
sea  became  more  infuriated;  that  the  swell  of  the 
waves  was  greater.  Far  in  the  distance  he  heard 
the  inhuman,  piercing  shriek  of  the  sea-gulls. 

"Who's  that  there,  Sally?" 

"It's— me." 

He  saw  that  both  of  the  men  in  the  smack  leaned 
toward  him. 

"What?" 

"It's—it's— me." 

"You!" 

"Go  on  back,  Pa; — Will,  make  him — go  on  back. 
Get  the  others  to  go; — please — Pa; — please." 

For  answer  he  heard  the  man's  shout  to  the  other 
boats  about  the  nets. 

"Storm — lads ; — make — for — shore." 

He  saw  a  moment's  hesitation  in  that  cluster  of 
fishing  smacks  and  then  one  by  one  he  watched  them 
pull  away  from  the  nets  and  row  toward  the  beach. 


HAUNTED  59 

He  reached  out  his  hand  and  caught  hold  of  the 
other  boat's  gunwale. 

"Make — the  little  girl — go — back  with — you." 

"Come  on,  Sally.  Hop  across  there.  Pa'll  help 
you." 

"We'll  follow  you,  Pa." 

"All  right." 

"Tell — the — little  girl — to  go  with  you!" 

"With— me?" 

"Tell— her!" 

"You  go  on,  Pa.    We'll  come  right  after  you." 

He  felt  the  boat  at  his  side  give  a  quick  lurch. 
His  hand  slipped  into  the  water.  He  could  feel  the 
sea  pulling  at  it.  His  own  smack  rocked  perilously 
for  a  second.  And  then  he  saw  the  girl's  father  and 
brother  rowing  toward  the  beach. 

"What — what'd — you — do — that — for?" 

She  did  not  answer  him. 

A  wave  broke  over  the  bow  of  his  boat. 

In  the  darkness  he  could  see  her  crawling  on  her 
hands  and  knees  along  the  bottom  of  the  smack  to 
him.  He  reached  down  and  caught  her  up  in  his 
arms. 

"Will  they  get  back — safe?"    She  whispered  it. 

"Yes." 

"Sure?" 

"They're  there— now." 

And  then  the  storm  broke.  The  lightning  flashed 
in  zigzagging,  blindly  flares  across  the  dark  of  the 
sky.  The  thunder  rumbled  in  clattering  crescendo. 
The  sea  tore  and  swirled  and  sucked.  Wave  after 


60  THE  SCARECROW 

wave  broke  over  the  small  boat.  She  rocked  and 
pitched  and  swivelled.  The  oars  were  washed  away. 
The  rain  and  the  wind  stung  them  with  their  fury. 
The  spray  cut  into  their  faces.  From  far  off  came 
the  uncanny,  inhuman,  piercing  sound  of  the  sea 
gulls'  shrieking. 

He  knew  then  that  the  time  had  come. 

He  held  her  very  close  to  him. 

He  had  filched  his  soul  from  the  sea.  He  who 
was  something  come  from  the  sea,  and  of  the  sea; 
and  always  belonging  to  the  sea. 

He  had  betrayed  the  sea. 

"Little  girl." 

"I'm  not— afraid." 

"Little  girl." 

"I  couldn't  stay  on — without  you.  I  always  knew 
— always — that  some  time  you'd — go — back." 

"You're  not— scared?" 

"Just — hold — me — tight." 

The  foam  covered  seething  breadth  of  the  water 
churning  itself  into  white  spumed  frenzy.  The 
dark,  lowering  skies.  The  black  deep  pull  of  the 
sea. 

"Tighter—" 


FLOWERS 


FLOWERS 

THE  night  wind  brought  him  the  smell  of 
flowers. 

For  a  moment  he  fought  against  the  smothering 
oppression  of  the  thing  he  hated;  for  a  second  the 
same  struggle  against  its  stifling  weight. 

His  eyes  closed  with  the  brows  above  them  drawn 
and  tight.  His  teeth  caught  savagely  at  his  lower 
lip,  gnawing  at  it  until  the  blood  came.  His  hands, 
the  fingers  wide  spread,  the  veins  purple  and  stand 
ing  out,  moved  slowly  and  tensely  to  his  throat. 

How  he  dreaded  it!  How  he  abominated  the 
thing!  How  he  loathed  the  subtle,  insidious  fra 
grance  !  How  he  abhorred  flowers — flowers ! 

With  a  tremendous,  forcing  effort  he  opened  his 
eyes. 

The  same  garden.  The  same  sweeping  reach  of 
flowers.  Flowers  as  far  as  he  could  see.  Gigantic 
blossoming  clumps  of  rhododendron.  Slender,  frag 
ile  lilies  of  the  valley  showing  white  and  faint  on 
the  deep  green  leaves.  Violets  somewhere.  He  got 
the  sickeningly  sweet  scent  of  them.  Early  roses 
growing  riotously.  He  detested  the  perfume  of 
roses. 

Overhead  the  darkening  sky  that  held  in  the  west 
the  thin  gray  crescent  of  the  coming  moon. 


64  THE  SCARECROW 

And  all  through  the  garden  the  first  dull  blue 
shadows  of  evening.  Shadows  that  blurred  around 
the  shapes  of  flowers;  shadows  that  spread  over 
the  flowers,  smearing  out  the  spotting  color  of  them 
until  they  were  a  gloom-splotched,  ghostly  mass. 
Shadows  that  brought  out  in  all  its  pungent  power 
the  assailing,  suffocating  smell  of  the  flowers. 

He  stood  there  waiting. 

He  could  feel  his  heartbeats  throbbing  in  his 
temples.  His  breath  came  in  long  racking  gasps. 
His  one  thought  was  to  breathe  regularly.  One — 
two —  He  tried  to  think  of  something  other  than  his 
breathing.  The  intangible  odor  of  the  flowers 
choked  him  with  their  stealthy  cunning. 

It  was  always  like  this  at  first.  He  had  always  to 
contend  silently  and  with  all  his  strength  against  this 
illusive,  abominated  thing  poured  out  to  him  by  the 
flowers. 

His  strangling  intaking  of  breath.     One — two — 

Never  in  all  his  life  had  he  been  without  his  hor 
ror  of  flowers;  never  until  now  had  he  known  why 
he  hated  them.  Lately  he  had  begun  to  wonder  if 
they  hated  him. 

It  would  be  better  when  she  came. 

They  were  her  flowers.  Her  flowers  that  took 
all  her  time;  all  her  thoughts;  all  her  caring  and 
affection.  Her  flowers  that  grew  all  about  her. 
Her  flowers  that  held  her  away  from  him.  He 
hated  her  flowers. 

One.    Two. 

It  would  be  quite  all  right  when  she  was  there. 


FLOWERS  65 

Her  flowers  would  not  harm  her. 

And  then  he  heard  the  soft,  uneven  rustling  of  her 
skirts. 

He  looked  up  to  see  her  walking  toward  him 
down  the  long  lane  of  her  flowers.  Through  the 
drenching  grayness  he  could  see  that  she  wore  the 
same  light  dress  that  made  her  tall  and  clung  to  her 
in  folds  so  that  her  figure  seemed  to  bend.  He  could 
distinguish  the  heavy  shadowy  mass  of  her  un 
covered  hair.  Her  eyes,  set  far  apart  and  dark, 
fixed  themselves  on  him.  A  quick  light  flooded  into 
them.  In  the  dusk  he  saw  that  her  hands  were 
clasped  together  and  that  they  were  filled  with  lilies. 

"Throw  them  away,"  he  said  when  she  stood  be 
side  him. 

"They're  so  pretty,"  she  told  him,  staring  down 
at  the  lilies.  "You'll  let  me  keep  these;  just  this 
once?" 

"Throw  them  away,"  he  repeated.  "I  can't 
stand  the  sight  of  them.  You  know  that.  Why 
must  you  go  on  picking  the  things  and  picking 
them?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Her  eyes  left  his 
face. 

"I  love  them,"  she  said  simply. 

"Love?"  He  laughed.  "How  can  you  love 
flowers?" 

"Oh,  but  I  can." 

"Well,  I  can't !"  He  had  been  wanting  her  to  know 
that  for  a  long  while. 

"Why  not?"  She  asked  him. 


66  THE  SCARECROW 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  tell  her  why  not. 

"Throw  them  away!" 

She  let  the  lilies  sift  through  her  fingers  one  by 
one.  And  then  the  last  fell  to  the  ground. 

"Are  you  satisfied?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "What  good  does  it  do,  anyway? 
The  next  time  it'll  be  the  same  again.  It  always  is." 

She  reached  out  a  hand  and  touched  his  arm. 

"But  I  never  know  when  you're  coming.  If  I 
knew  I  wouldn't  be  picking  flowers.  I  can't  help 
having  them  in  my  hands  when  you  come,  if  I  don't 
know,  can  I?" 

"It  isn't  that." 

He  covered  her  hand  lying  on  his  arm  with  his 
hand. 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

•   She  pulled  her  fingers  from  under  his  and  drew 
away  a  bit. 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  try  and  tell  her. 

"It's  the  flowers.  I  should  have  told  you  long 
ago.  Even  at  the  beginning  when  we  first —  When 
I  first  came  here,  I — " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"When  was  that?    How  long  ago?" 

"How  can  I  tell?    Ages  ago." 

"It  does  seem;"  she  said  it  slowly.  "It  does 
seem  as  if  you  had  always  come  here.  I  can't  re 
member  the  time  when  you  didn't  come.  It's 
strange,  isn't  it?  Because,  you  know,  there  was  a 
time  when  you  weren't  here.  That  was  when  I  be 
gan  with  the  flowers." 


FLOWERS  67 

"I  wish  you'd  never  begun,"  he  muttered. 
"That's  what  I've  got  to  say  to  you.  I  hate  flowers. 
I've  always  hated  them !  I  never  quite  knew  why  till 
I  came  here  and  found  you  loving  them  so  much. 
You  never  think  of  anything,  or  talk  of  anything 
but  your  flowers.  If  you  must  know,  that's  why  I 
hate  them!" 

"How  silly  of  you!" 

He  thought  she  smiled. 

"It's  not,"  he  said.  "There's  nothing  silly  about 
it.  I'd  like  to  have  you  think  of  other  things. 
There're  plenty  of  other  things.  I  want  you  to 
think  of  them.  I — want — " 

He  broke  off  abruptly. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I — I — want — you —    I  can't  say  it!" 

For  a  little  while  they  were  silent.  It  grew 
darker.  The  shadows  that  lay  along  the  ground 
moved  upward  through  the  bushes  of  rhododendron. 
He  watched  the  fantastic  mesh  of  them  shifting 
there.  The  gray  of  the  crescent  moon  grew  faintly 
yellow.  His  eyes  roved  over  the  shadow  splashed 
reach  of  flowers.  The  heavy  odor  of  them  sickened 
him. 

"If  only  you'd  try  to  like  them!"  She  said  it 
wistfully. 

"It's  no  use.    I  couldn't." 

"If  you  worked  among  them  the  way  I  work, 
perhaps  you  could." 

"I  tell  you  I  couldn't!" 

"But  they're  so  lovely."    Her  hand  went  out  and 


68  THE  SCARECROW 

touched  a  rose.  "It's  taken  me  years  to  perfect  this 
one.  You  can't  see  in  this  light.  But  during  the 
day — ;  why  don't  you  ever  come  here  during  the 
day?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  told  her  quite  truthfully. 

"During  the  day,"  she  went  on,  "you  ought 
to  see  it.  It's  yellow;  almost  gold.  And  its  center — 
That's  quite,  quite  pink  with  the  very  middle  bit  al 
most  scarlet.  I  love  this  rose." 

He  thought  then  that  he  could  smell  the  par 
ticular  fragrance  of  the  one  rose  permeating  subtly 
through  the  odor  of  all  those  other  flowers.  She 
loved  that  yellow  and  gold  and  scarlet  rose. 

"Good  heavens,"  he  said,  "do  stop  telling  me 
how  much  you  love  your  flowers!" 

"If  you  were  with  them  all  the  time — " 

He  did  not  let  her  finish. 

"That's  all  you  do,  isn't  it?  Just  care  for  your 
flowers  all  day  long?" 

"Why,  yes."  She  was  surprised.  "Of  course  it's 
all  I  do.  It's  all  I  care  about  doing.  It  takes  every 
minute  of  my  time.  You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it."    His  tone  was  gruff. 

"Then  why  do  you  always  talk  about  it  like  this?" 
She  asked  him.  "I've  done  it  for  years.  Ever  since 
I  can  remember.  It's  hard  work,  but  I  like  doing  it. 
I  don't  think  you  know  how  alone  I've  always  been. 
I'm  afraid  you  don't  realize  that.  Not  really,  any 
way.  I've  just  never  had  anything  to  care  about  un 
til  I  started  in  with  the  flowers.  I  don't  know  if  I 
ought  to  tell  you — " 


FLOWERS  69 

She  stopped  speaking  quite  suddenly. 

"What?" 

"I  don't  think  you'd  like  to  know  what  I  was  go 
ing  to  say." 

"Tell  me,"  he  insisted. 

"Well."  She  spoke  slowly.  "Sometimes  I  feel 
as  though —  It's  so  hard  to  say.  But  sometimes 
I  feel  as  if  the  flowers  know  how  much  I  care  and — 
and  as  if  they  care  too." 

"Why  d'you  say  that?" 

"I  don't  quite  know.  Only  they're  living  things; 
they  are,  aren't  they?" 

"I  suppose  they  are;  but  that's  no  reason  for  you 
to  encourage  yourself  in  all  those  queer  ideas  about 
them." 

"Queer  ideas?" 

"You  know  the  sort  of  thing  I  mean." 

"I  don't.    What  sort?" 

He  thought  then  that  her  voice  had  a  hurt  sound 
drifting  through  it. 

"Loving  them.    For  one  thing." 

"But  what  can  I  do?  What  else  have  I  to  love? 
I've  just  told  you  how  much  alone  I  am.  All  the 
time,  really.  The  flowers  are  the  only  things  I  have. 
I've  just  told  you  that." 

He  waited  a  second. 

"You  have  me,"  he  said. 

uYou?  But  you  hardly  ever  come.  I'm  so  lone 
some.  You  can't  know  what  that  means.  I  am 
lonely.  And  you —  Why,  sometimes  I  think  you're, 
not  real.  Not — even — real — " 


70  THE  SCARECROW 

"Don't !    For  God's  sake  don't  say  that  1" 

"I  can't  help  it!  I  tell  you,  I  can't.  It's  all  right 
now.  It's  always  all  right  when  you're  here.  But 
after  you  go —  Nothing  is  real  to  me;  nothing  but 
the  flowers.  And  you  don't  want  me  to  care  for 
them.  You  keep  saying  you  hate  them.  They're 
all  I've  got.  Won't  you — can't  you  see  that?" 

"But — if — Ii — come — here — to — stay  ?" 

"To— stay?11 

"Would  you  want  me  here?" 

He  saw  her  hands  move  upward  until  they  lay  in 
two  white  spots  on  her  breast. 

"Want  you? — If — only — you — knew — " 

He  waited  a  moment  before  he  said  it. 

"And  you — could — love — me?" 

"I've  always  loved  you." 

She  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"I'll  find  a  way."  He  told  her.  "There  must  be 
a  way." 

"But  how?     How?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  thought  about  it  before. 
I  never  knew  you  cared.  I  thought  it  was  just  the 
flowers.  Nothing  but  the  flowers.  I  hate  the 
flowers.  The  feel  of  them — the  sight  of  them — 
the  smell  of  them.  I  couldn't  ever  come  here  with 
out  being  suffocated.  I  was  jealous  of  them;  fear 
fully  jealous." 

"And — I — thought."  Her  voice  was  low.  "I 
— thought — that — because — I — feel — they — love — 
me ; — because — I  love — them ; — somehow — they — 
brought — you — here." 


FLOWERS  71 

"And  when  I  come — " 

"When?" 

Her  voice  itself  trailed  to  a  whisper. 

"I  will  come  to  you!     I — will!" 

"How — can — you — find — me  ?" 

"Somehow— I  will!" 

"If — only — you — could.  I  am  lonely.  Terribly 
— lonely.  If — it — would — be — soon." 

"It — must — be — soon." 

"I'll — wait — for  you — always.  But — if  you  are 
— real — you'll — come — soon.  It's  lonely — wait 
ing.  And — I — don't — even — know — if — you — are. 
I — don't — even — know." 

The  Reverend  William  Cruthers  started  from  his 
chair. 

Some  one  had  banged  the  window  closed.  Some 
one  had  lit  the  lamp  on  the  center  table.  Its  yellow 
light  trickled  through  the  room  and  over  the  scant 
old  fashioned  furniture  and  crept  upwards  across 
the  booklined  walls. 

The  room  was  stuffy  and  close.  The  smell  of 
flowers  had  gone. 

"Billy!" 

He  turned  to  see  his  sister  rushing  across  the 
room  to  him.  He  stooped  a  bit  and  caught  her  in 
his  arms. 

"Why,  Gina.  I  didn't  know.  Why  didn't  you 
write  and  tell  me?  Who  brought  you  up  from  the 
station?" 

The  girl  kissed  him  hastily  and  enthusiastically  on 
either  cheek. 


72  THE  SCARECROW 

*A  nice  welcome  home!"  She  laughed  breath 
lessly.  "I  was  just  about  to  make  a  graceful  and 
silent  exit." 

"But,  Gina,  I  didn't  know." 

uOf  course  you  didn't  know.  You  couldn't.  I 
wouldn't  write.  I  wanted  to  surprise  you.  Aren't 
you  surprised,  Billy?" 

"Awfully,"  he  conceded. 

"Awfully?" 

Her  brows  puckered. 

"Very  much  so,  I  mean." 

"You  never  do  know  just  what  you  do  mean.  Do 
you,  William?" 

"Naturally,  I  do." 

"It  wouldn't  be  natural  for  you  if  you  did." 

The  girl  slid  away  from  him  and  went  and 
perched  herself  comfortably  on  the  arm  of  the  chair 
in  which  he  had  been  sitting.  Her  hands  were 
busy  with  her  hatpins  and  her  eyes  that  peered  up 
at  him  were  filled  with  laughter. 

"How  did  you  get  up  from  the  station,  Gina?" 

"Oh,  such  a  lovely  way,  Billy!  And  so  very  ener 
getic  for  me.  I  walked.  Now,  what  do  you  know 
about  that?" 

He  frowned  a  bit. 

"Very  good  for  you,  I  don't  doubt."  He  said  it 
stiffly.  "After  all  the  motoring  you  must  have  done 
with  those  friends  of  yours!" 

She  had  gotten  her  hat  off.  She  sat  dangling  it 
by  the  brim.  The  lamplight  streaked  over  her  hair. 

"Now,  don't  be  nasty,  William.     And  whatever 


FLOWERS  73 

you  do,  don't  speak  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  congrega 
tion.  The  Trents  are  perfectly  lovely  people,  even 
if  they  are  terribly  rich  and  not  very  Christian.  And 
— and  Georgie  Trent  is  a  sweet  boy;  and,"  she 
added  it  hastily.  "Wood  Mills  is  a  duck  of  a 
place!" 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets. 

"I  never  said  it  wasn't,  Gina." 

She  paid  no  attention  to  him.  Her  legs  were 
crossed.  Her  one  foot  was  swinging  to  and  fro. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  speculatively  on  the  foot. 

"And  you  ought  to  be  very  glad  to  have  me  here 
again.  Suppose  I'd  listened  to  Georgie  and  married 
him  right  off,  instead  of  coming  back  here.  A  nice 
fix  you'd  have  been  in.  You  know  perfectly  well  no 
one  in  all  the  world  does  for  you  as  nicely  as  I  do. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

He  smiled  down  at  her. 

"To  be  sure  I  do." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  she  went  on.  "When  I 
came  in  here  you  were  half,  if  not  altogether,  asleep 
in  this  chair." 

"I  wasn't  asleep,  Gina." 

"Oh,  that's  what  you  always  say.  But  I  banged 
in  and  you  didn't  hear  me.  I  lighted  the  lamp  and 
you  didn't  seem  particularly  conscious  of  it.  And 
the  window.  The  window  was  wide  open.  I  closed 
that  for  you.  The  wind  was  bringing  in  just  yards 
of  those  flower  smells  you  hate  so." 

"Was  it,  Gina?" 

"Huh— huh." 


74  THE  SCARECROW 

"You  smelled  them,  then?" 

His  tone  was  strangely  quiet. 

"Of  course  I  did.  Come  and  sit  here,  Billy." 
She  wiggled  herself  into  a  more  comfortable  posi 
tion  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  "And  tell  your 
onliest  sister  how  much  you  love  her." 

He  went  and  sat  beside  her  in  the  chair.  He  put 
his  arm  about  her  waist. 

"You're  a  dear  child,  Gina." 

"I  know  it!"  She  snuggled  close  to  him.  "And 
I've  had  the  most  divine  time,  Billy.  Wood  Mills 
is  a  glorious  place.  There  wasn't  an  awful  lot  to 
do;  but  whatever  we  did  was  great  fun." 

"You'd  have  a  good  time  anywhere,  little  sister." 

"Would  I?" 

Her  eyes  wavered  about  the  room  a  bit  hungrily. 

Something  in  her  voice  pulled  his  eyes  up  to  her 
face. 

"Gina,  what  is  it?" 

"Nothing,  Billy." 

She  felt  his  fingers  tighten  at  her  side. 

"Aren't  you  happy  here,  Gina?" 

"Of  course  I  am,  Billy!"  Her  head  was  thrown 
back  so  that  the  long  line  of  her  throat  showed  in  its 
firm  molded  whiteness.  "Only,  Billy,  I  want — I 
don't  think  I  even  know  what  I  want.  Only  just 
sometimes  I  feel  it.  A  want — that — perhaps — isn't 
— even — mine.  It's  for  something; — well,  for  some 
thing  that  doesn't  feel  here." 

He  stroked  her  hand. 

"It's  lonesome  for  you,  Gina." 


FLOWERS  75 

"No,  it  isn't  that.  It's  just;  oh,  I  guess  it's  just 
that  I  worry  about  you." 

"Me,  Gina?" 

"Yes,  Billy.  Sometimes  you  look  so — so  starved. 
That's  what  makes  me  think  it's  your  want  I  feel — ; 
yours  that  you  want  very  much — and — and — Billy, 
that  you  can't  get  hold  of." 

"No,  Gina!    No!" 

She  pressed  her  cheek  against  his. 

"Oh,  Billy."  She  spoke  quickly.  "There  was  one 
place  out  there  at  Wood  Mills.  You  wouldn't  have 
liked  it.  But  it  was  too  wonderful!" 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief  at  the  sudden 
change  in  her  voice. 

"What  was  it,  Gina?  Why  wouldn't  I  have  liked 
it?" 

She  fidgeted  a  bit. 

"Why?    Oh— because." 

"Because  what,  Gina?" 

"It  was  just  one  big  estate,  Billy.  A  girl  owns  it. 
She's  an  orphan.  She's  very  beautiful.  She  lives 
there  all  by  herself  except  for  a  couple  of  old  serv 
ants.  Claire  Trent  and  I  saw  her  once  or  twice 
when  we  rode  through  the  place.  Claire  says  she's 
sort  of  queer.  She  doesn't  bother  about  people. 
She  doesn't  like  them,  Claire  says.  She  spends  all 
her  time  around  the  place." 

"That  sounds  very  strenuous,  Gina." 

"Oh,  it  isn't,  Billy.    It's  lovely.    The  estate  is." 

"I've  heard  the  places  there  are  pretty." 

"Pretty!     But  this  one,  Billy;"  in  her  enthusiasm 


76  THE  SCARECROW 

she  leaned  eagerly  forward.  "You  couldn't  imagine 
it!  There  are  miles  and  miles.  And  the  whole 
thing;  Claire  says  the  whole  year  round;  it's  just 
one  big  mass  of  flowers." 

In  spite  of  himself  he  pulled  his  arm  away  from 
the  girl's  waist. 

"Oh,  is  it?" 

"Billy,  I  know  you  don't  like  flowers.  But  this ! 
You've  never  seen  anything  like  this!" 

"There're  probably  lots  and  lots  of  places  like 
it,  little  sister." 

"Oh,  no!"  Her  tone  was  vehement.  "There 
couldn't  be.  Not  such  a  garden!  All  rhododen 
drons  and  lilies  of  the  valley — ;  is  anything  wrong, 
Billy?" 

"Nothing.  Those  flowers  grow  in  all  gardens  at 
this  time  of  the  year." 

She  stared  into  his  blanched  face  and  her  brows 
drew  together  in  a  puzzled  frown. 

"Not  like  this,  Billy.  Really.  I've  never  seen 
such  rhododendrons  or  such  lilies.  And  the  violets 
and  roses!" 

He  got  to  his  feet  suddenly. 

"What?"  He  asked  hoarsely.  "What  flowers 
did  you  say?" 

"Why,  rhododendrons — and  lilies, — and — lilies. 
What  is  it,  Billy?" 

"Go  on,  Gina.    Go  on!" 

"Billy!" 

"Lilies  of  the  valley  and  violets,  Gina — " 

"And  roses;"  she  finished  mechanically. 


FLOWERS  77 

"What  kind  of  roses,  Gina?" 

The  puzzled  frown  left  her  face. 

"Glorious  roses,  Billy."  She  was  enthusiastic 
again.  "There've  never  been  roses  like  these. 
Why,  there's  one  kind  of  a  rose.  It's  known  all  over 
now.  It  took  her  years  and  years  to  grow  it." 

"What  sort  of  a  rose,  Gina?  What  sort  did  you 
say?" 

"I  didn't  say,  Billy.  I  don't  even  know  the  name 
of  it.  But  it's  a  yellow  rose;  almost  gold.  And  its 
center  is  pink  and — and  scarlet." 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent. 

"Did  you  see  this — this  woman,  Gina — often?" 

"Oh,  once  or  twice,  Billy." 

"When,  Gina?" 

"In  the  evenings;  each  time." 

"Where  was  she,  Gina?" 

"Why,  how  strange  you  are,  Billy." 

"Where,  Gina?  Tell  me,  d'you  hear — tell  me — 
where?" 

"In  her  garden,  Billy.  What's  there  to  get  so 
excited  about?" 

He  fought  for  his  control  then. 

"I'd  like  to  know,  Gina — where  you  saw  her  and 
—and—" 

The  girl  interrupted  him. 

"I  saw  her  in  the  evenings — in  her  garden.  She 
used  to  walk  down — well — it  looked  like  a  long 
lane  of  flowers.  To  be  exact,  Billy,  it  was  always  in 
the  evening  and  kind  of  gray.  So  I  couldn't  see  very 


78  THE  SCARECROW 

much  except  that  she  wore  a  light  clingy  sort  of 
dress." 

She  stopped  for  a  second. 

"Yes,  Gina?" 

His  voice  was  more  quiet  now. 

"I  told  you  she  was  a  bit  queer,  didn't  I?" 

"Queer?     God!  she — was — lonesome — Gina!" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  caught  at  his  last  words.  "I'll  bet 
she  was  lonesome.  Any  one  would  be,  living  like 
that.  That's  what  makes  her  queer  I  guess.  I  saw 
her  both  times  with  my  own  eyes  come  down  the 
garden  with  her  hands  full  of  flowers.  Both  times 
I  saw  her  stand  quite  still.  And  then  Claire  and  I 
would  see  her  drop  her  flowers  to  the  ground.  That 
was  the  funny  part.  She  didn't  throw  them  away. 
It  wasn't  that,  you  know." 

"No,  Gina." 

"She'd,  well,  she'd  drop  them.  One  by  one.  As 
if—" 

"As  if  what,  Gina?" 

"Oh,  as  if  she  were  being  made  to  do  it." 

He  went  to  his  knees  then.  He  buried  his  head 
in  the  girl's  lap. 

She  leaned  anxiously  forward,  her  hand  smoothing 
his  hair. 

"Billy— Billy,  dear— aren't  you  well?     Billy,  tell 


me." 


He  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak. 

"Billy,  is  this  what  you  do  when  I  come  home  to 
you?  Shame  on  you,  Billy!  Why — why,  Billy, 
aren't  you  glad  to  have  me  here?  Say,  aren't  you?" 


FLOWERS  79 

"Thank  God!"     He  whispered.     'Thank  God!" 

He  got  to  his  feet  then. 

The  girl  rose  from  her  chair  and  clung  to  him. 

"I've  never  seen  you  like  this,  Billy." 

"Listen,  Gina;"  his  voice  was  low.  "When  you 
go  upstairs  to  take  off  your  things,  pack  my  grip, 
little  sister.  I'm  going  away." 

"Away,  Billy?" 

"Yes,  Gina." 

"But  where,  Billy?" 

"To  a  place  where  I've  wanted  to  go  for  a  very 
Hng — long  time,  little  sister." 

"But,  Billy—" 

"Will  you  do  that  for  me?  Now,  Gina?  I — I — 
want  to — leave." 

"When,  Billy?" 

"As — soon — as — I  can,  Gina.     It — must — be — 


soon." 


The  girl  went  out  of  the  room  very  quietly. 

He  crossed  over  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open. 

Darkness  as  far  as  he  could  see.  Darkness  in 
which  were  smudged  lighter  things  without  shape. 
Somewhere  in  the  distance  the  feathery  ends  of 
branches  brushed  their  leaves  to  and  fro  against  the 
sky. 

He  knew  that  the  wind  was  stirring. 

He  looked  up  at  the  heavens.  Gray  and  dark 
save  where  the  thin  crescent  moon  held  its  haunting 
yellow  light  that  was  slurred  over  by  drifting  clouds 
and  then  held  again. 

He  could  see  the  wind  driving  the  clouds. 


8o  THE  SCARECROW 

The  swish  of  the  wind  out  there  going  through 
those  smudged  lighter  things  without  shape. 

He  leaned  far  over  the  sill. 

And  suddenly  the  night  wind  brought  him  the 
smell  of  flowers. 

Gradually  the  odor  of  the  flowers  blending  subtly 
and  faint  at  first,  grew  more  distinct;  heavier. 

He  stood  there  smiling. 

Flowers — 

Her — flowers — 

"I'm  coming;"  he  whispered.  "I'm — coming — 
to — you — now — dear — " 


THE  SHADOW 


THE  SHADOW 

HE  was  colossally  vain. 
He  lived  with  his  wife  Ellen,   in  the  small 
house  on  Peach  Tree  Road. 

There  was  nothing  pretentious  about  the  house; 
there  were  any  number  of  similar  houses  along  the 
line  of  Peach  Tree  Road.  For  that  matter  the 
house  was  the  kind  planted  innumerable  times  in  the 
numerous  suburbs  of  the  large  city.  Still,  it  was 
his  house.  His  own.  That  meant  a  lot  to  him  when 
ever  he  thought  of  it;  and  he  thought  of  it  often 
enough.  He  liked  to  feel  the  thing  actually  belonged 
to  him.  It  emphasized  his  being  to  himself. 

The  house  was  a  two-storied  affair  built  of  wood 
and  white  washed.  A  green  mansard  roof  came 
down  over  the  small  green  shuttered  upper  windows. 
On  the  lower  floor  the  windows  were  somewhat 
larger  with  the  same  solid  wooden  green  shutters. 
A  gravel  path  led  up  to  the  front  door.  Two  droop 
ing  willow  trees  stood  on  either  side  of  the  wicker 
gate. 

Before  the  time  when  his  aunt  had  died  and  had 
left  him  the  house  he  had  not  been  particularly  suc 
cessful.  At  the  age  of  forty-one  he  had  found  him 
self  a  hard-working  journalist  and  nothing  more. 
He  had  had  no  ambition  to  ever  be  anything  else. 

83 


84  THE  SCARECROW 

He  was  at  all  times  so  utterly  confident  that  the 
work  he  was  doing  was  quite  right;  chiefly  because 
it  was  the  work  that  he  was  doing.  No  man  had  a 
more  unbounded  faith  in  himself.  At  that  time  he 
had  not  been  conscious  of  his  lack  of  success.  Now, 
of  course,  he  looked  back  on  it  all  as  a  period  of  de 
velopment;  something  which  had  prepared  him  for 
this  that  was  even  then  destined  to  come. 

He  told  himself  that  in  this  small  house,  away 
from  the  surrounding  clatter  and  nuisances  of  the 
city,  he  had  found  time  to  write;  to  be  himself;  to 
really  express  what  he  knew  himself  to  be. 

He  had  become  tremendously  well  known  in  that 
space  of  six  years.  No  one  ever  doubted  the  genius 
of  Jasper  Wald.  He  wrote  as  a  man  writes  who  is 
actually  inspired.  His  books  were  read  with  interest 
and  surprisingly  favorable  comment.  There  was 
something  different;  something  singularly  appealing 
in  all  of  Jasper  Wald's  works. 

At  that  time  his  conceit  was  inordinate.  It  ex 
tended  to  a  sort  of  personal,  physical  vanity.  In 
itself  that  was  grotesque.  There  was  absolutely 
nothing  attractive  in  the  loosely  jointed,  stoop- 
shouldered  body  of  him;  or  for  that  matter  in  the 
narrow  head  covered  with  sparse  blond  gray  hair. 
The  eyes  of  him  were  of  rather  a  washed  blue 
and  bulged  a  bit  from  out  their  sockets;  the  nose 
was  a  singularly  squat  affair,  at  the  same  time  too 
long.  The  mouth  was  unpleasantly  small  with  lips 
so  colorless  and  thin  that  the  line  of  it  was  like 
some  weird  mark.  Yet  he  was  vain  of  his  appear- 


THE  SHADOW  85 

ance.  But  then  his  egoism  was  the  keynote  of  his 
entire  being. 

Some  people  could  not  forgive  it  in  him;  even 
when  they  acknowledged  him  as  a  writer  and  praised 
his  work.  The  man  in  literature  was  spoken  of  as  a 
mystic,  a  poet,  a  possessor  of  subtlety  that  was  close 
to  genius.  In  actual  life,  Jasper  Wald  was  an  out 
and  out  materialist. 

As  for  his  wife,  Ellen: 

She  was  rather  a  tall  woman;  thin  but  not  un 
graceful.  Her  features  were  good,  very  regular, 
still  somewhat  nondescript.  All  but  her  eyes.  Her 
eyes  were  strange;  green  in  color,  and  so  heavily 
lidded  that  one  could  rarely  see  the  expression  of 
them.  Then,  too,  she  had  an  odd  manner  of  moving. 
There  never  seemed  to  be  any  effort  or  any  abrupt 
ness  in  whatever  she  did.  Even  her  walk  was  sin 
uous. 

He  had  married  her  when  they  both  were  young. 
Through  his  persistent  habit  of  ignoring  her  she 
had  been  dwarfed  into  a  nonentity.  To  have  looked 
at  the  woman  one  would  have  said  that  hers  was  a 
distinctive  personality  unbelievably  suppressed.  It 
would  not  have  been  possible  for  any  one  living  with 
Jasper  Wald  to  have  asserted  himself.  Perhaps  she 
had  learned  that  years  before.  Certainly  his  was 
the  character  which  predominated;  domineered 
through  the  encouragement  of  his  own  egoism. 

Her  attitude  toward  him  was  perpetually  one  of 
self-effacement.  She  stood  for  his  conceit  in  a  pe 
culiarly  passive  way.  If  it  ever  irritated  her  she 


86  THE  SCARECROW 

gave  no  sign.  And  he  kept  right  on  with  his  semi- 
indulgent  manner  of  patronizing  her  stupidity. 
That  is,  when  he  noticed  her  at  all. 

She  was  essential  to  him  in  so  far  as  she  supplied 
all  of  his  physical  wants.  Those  in  themselves  were 
of  great  importance  to  Jasper  Wald.  There  was  no 
companionship  between  them.  Jasper  Wald  could 
never  have  indulged  in  companionship  of  any  kind. 
He  had  put  himself  far  beyond  that.  To  his  way  of 
thinking  he  was  a  super  being  who  had  no  need 
whatever  for  the  rest  of  man.  He  was  all  self-suf 
ficient. 

If  there  had  ever  been  love  between  them  in  those 
days  when  they  had  first  come  together  they  had 
both  of  them  completely  lost  sight  of  it.  He  in  his 
complacent  conceit;  she  in  her  monotonous  negation. 

And  as  time  went  on,  and  as  his  work  became 
greater  Jasper  Wald  grew  even  further  away  from 
the  sort  of  thing  he  wrote ;  so  that  it  was  more  than 
ever  difficult  for  those  who  knew  him  to  disassociate 
him  from  his  writings.  There  was  always  the  temp 
tation  to  try  to  find  some  of  his  literary  idealism  in 
himself;  to  find  some  of  his  prosaic  realism  in  his 
works. 

On  one  occasion  Delafield,  his  publisher,  came  to 
him;  to  the  house  on  Peach  Tree  Road.  It  was  a 
peculiarity  of  Jasper  Wald's  to  persistently  refuse 
any  request  to  leave  his  home.  It  was  the  one  thing 
about  which  he  was  superstitious.  He  had  never  by 
word  or  thought  attributed  his  success  to  anyone  or 
anything  outside  of  himself.  He  had  made  his 


THE  SHADOW  87 

name    in   this   house    and   he   would   not   leave   it. 

Delafield's  visit  came  at  a  time  just  after  Jasper 
Wald's  last  book  had  been  published. 

Sitting  in  the  square,  simply  furnished  living  room, 
Delafield  for  all  his  enthusiasm  for  the  author  had 
felt  a  certain  inexplicable  disgust. 

"It's  great,  Wald;  there's  genius  to  it.  We'll 
have  it  run  through  its  second  edition  a  week  after 
we  put  it  on  the  market." 

"I  don't  doubt  that;"  Jasper  Wald's  tone  was 
matter-of-fact  in  his  confidence.  "Not  for  a  mo 


ment." 


Delafield  bit  off  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"When  will  your  next  one  be  ready?" 

He  asked  it  abruptly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Jasper  Wald  had  pulled 
leisurely  at  his  pipe.  "Whenever  I  make  up  my 
mind  to  it,  I  suppose.  It's  going  to  be  the  biggest 
thing  I've  tackled  yet,  Delafield." 

"Well — "  Delafield  got  up  to  go.  "It  can't  be  too 
soon.  You'll  have  a  barrel  of  money  before  you  get 
done.  Genius  doesn't  usually  pay  that  way,  either. 
But — ;"  he  could  not  help  himself.  "You've  got 
the  knack  of  the  thing.  Heaven  knows  where  you 
get  it;  but  it's  the  knowledge  we  all  need  that  comes 
from—" 

He  broke  off  quite  suddenly  as  Ellen  Wald  came 
into  the  room. 

"I  didn't  know;"  she  said  uncertainly.  "I  thought 
you  were  alone." 

"My  wife,  Delafield."    Jasper  Wald  made  the  in- 


88  THE  SCARECROW 

troduction  impatiently.  "Ellen,  this  is  Mr.  Dela 
field,  who  publishes  my  books." 

She  came  toward  them  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Delafield.  He  could  not  help  but  noticing  her  odd 
manner  of  moving. 

"Good  evening,"  she  said. 

Delafield  had  not  known  that  Jasper  Wald  was 
married.  It  was  almost  impossible  for  him  to  im 
agine  anyone  living  with  this  man.  He  looked  at 
the  woman  curiously.  He  had  the  feeling  that  her 
individuality  had  been  stultified.  It  did  not  surprise 
him.  Jasper  Wald  could  have  accomplished  that. 
It  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  matched  him 
with  as  flagrantly  material  a  person  as  he  himself 
was.  Only  that  sort  of  person  would  have  stood  a 
chance  with  him.  Any  other  would  have  had  to  fall 
flat.  She  had  fallen  flat.  Delafield  knew  that  the 
moment  he  looked  at  her. 

"Why,  I  didn't  know;"  Delafield  took  her  hand  in 
his.  "You  never  told  me,  Wald,  that  you  were  mar 
ried." 

"Didn't  I?  No,  of  course  not. — But,  about  the 
new  book,  Delafield." 

Delafield  dropped  her  hand.  He  had  never  felt 
anything  quite  as  inert  as  that  hand.  It  impressed 
the  nondescript  quality  of  her  upon  him  even  more 
strongly  than  had  her  appearance. 

"Your  husband  has  promised  me  another  book, 
Mrs.  Wald."  He  spoke  slowly.  He  felt  he  had  to 
speak  that  way  or  she  would  not  understand  him. 
"Your  husband  is  a  great  author,  Mrs.  Wald." 


THE  SHADOW  89 

"Yes." 

"Why  don't  you  say,  genius,  Delafield,  and  be 
done  with  it?  Why  don't  you  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it  with — genius?" 

"I've  got  to  Be  going." 

Delafield  felt  a  strange  irritation.  The  man  was 
a  fool.  For  what  reason  under  the  sun  could  this 
woman  with  those  half  closed  eyes  let  herself  be 
dominated  by  him?  The  two  of  them  got  on  his 
nerves. 

"Won't  you  stay  to  dinner?" 

Jasper  Wald  was  obviously  anxious  for  a  chance 
to  speak  of  himself. 

"Sorry,  Wald.     I've  got  to  be  getting  on." 

Delafield  still  watched  the  woman.  She  stood 
there  quite  silent. 

"I  thought  you  might  have  something  to  say  about 
that  book  of  mine." 

"No —  There's  nothing  more."  Delafield  started 
for  the  door.  "I've  just  told  you  that  it's  full  of  the 
sort  of  knowledge  all  of  us  are  in  need  of.  I  can't 
say  more,  you  know.  I  suppose  that  knowledge  is 
what  constitutes  genius;  but — "  He  was  staring 
now  full  into  those  bulging  blue  eyes — "Lord,  man, 
where,  where  d'you  get  it  from?" 

Glancing  at  the  woman,  Delafield  saw  that  she  was 
looking  straight  at  him.  Her  eyes  met  his  in  a 
way  which  he  was  completely  at  a  loss  to  explain. 
There  was  something  eerie  about  it. 

"Where  does  he  get  it?" 

She  repeated  his  question  stupidly  and  once  again 


9o  THE  SCARECROW 

the  heavy  lids  came  down  over  those  strange  green 
eyes,  hiding  all  expression. 

Jasper  Wald  drew  in  his  breath. 

"I  write  it,"  he  said. 

After  that  Delafield  left  them  both  severely  alone. 
The  woman  puzzled  him.  He  could  not  tolerate 
the  man,  Jasper  Wald,  and  he  could  not  for  worlds 
have  the  genius  of  Jasper  Wald  hurt  or  slighted  in 
any  way.  He  knew  how  big  it  was.  It  often  left 
him  breathless.  But  the  man;  he  would  have  liked 
to  have  hit  him  that  day  in  the  living  room  in  the 
house  on  Peach  Tree  Road;  to  have  kicked  him  into 
some  sort  of  a  realization  as  to  what  an  utter  little 
rat  he  was. 

And  so,  because  of  his  physical  make-up,  people 
stayed  away  from  Jasper  Wald.  Not  that  he 
avoided  people;  not  that  he  wanted  to  live  the  life  of 
a  recluse.  He  never  made  any  attempt  to  conceal 
his  living  from  the  general  public.  He  was  too 
much  of  the  egoist  to  attempt  concealment  of  any 
kind.  So  his  life  was  known  to  any  man,  woman  or 
child  who  cared  for  the  knowledge.  His  life  of  nar 
row  selfishness,  of  tranquil  complacency;  of  colossal 
conceit.  And  of  genius. 

He  always  wrote  in  the  evenings,  did  Jasper 
Wald.  And  often  he  would  keep  at  his  writing 
well  on  into  the  morning. 

He  liked  to  sit  there  in  the  square,  old-fashioned 
living  room  with  its  wide  window  that  gave  out 
upon  Peach  Tree  Road. 

When  he  had  first  moved  into  the  house  as  an 


THE  SHADOW  91 

obscure,  hard-working  journalist  he  had  placed  the 
desk  against  the  window  ledge  so  that  he  could  look 
directly  out  of  the  window  without  moving.  And  he 
had  kept  the  desk  there.  He  was  just  a  bit  insistent 
about  it.  Then,  too,  he  liked  the  blind  up  so  that 
he  could  stare  out  into  the  evening  and  at  the  house 
opposite. 

For  all  his  impossible  vanity  there  must  have  been 
imbedded  deep  down  in  the  small,  hard  soul  of  the 
man  some  excessive,  frantic  hunger  of  self-recogni 
tion  by  others.  A  potential  desire  to  accomplish  an 
assertion  of  self  that  could  in  no  way  be  denied;  a 
fundamental  energy  which  had  in  some  way  made 
possible  the  work,  but  which  he  could  never  admit 
for  fear  that  it  might  evade  the  importance  of  him 
self. 

The  house  opposite  interested  him  tremendously. 
Sitting  there  in  an  abstract  fit  of  musing,  he  watched 
it  as  one  subconsciously  watches  a  place  that  has 
one's  attention. 

To  all  outward  appearances  the  house  across  the 
way  was  heavily  boarded  up  and  closed.  It  had 
always  been  closed  since  the  time  that  Jasper  Wald 
had  come  to  live  in  Peach  Tree  Road.  Yet  every 
evening  in  the  window  directly  facing  his  he  had 
seen  the  shadow  of  a  man  moving  to  and  fro;  to  and 
fro,  beyond  the  drawn  blind.  He  would  sit  there 
watching  the  dark,  undefined  shadow  until  he  felt 
that  he  had  to  work,  and  then  the  whole  thing  would 
slip  from  his  mind  until  the  following  evening  when 
he  would  again  be  at  his  desk. 


92  THE  SCARECROW 

Strangely  enough  he  had  never  mentioned  the 
presence  of  the  shadow  to  anyone.  There  was 
about  it  a  certain  mysterious  unreality.  That  much 
he,  Jasper  Wald,  was  capable  of  knowing.  It  was 
the  one  thing  outside  of  himself  that  gripped  at  his 
intelligence. 

During  all  those  six  years  he  had  waited  at  his 
desk  each  night  for  the  coming  of  the  shadow.  And 
when  it  came  he  had  started  to  work.  He  never 
explained  the  thing  to  himself.  He  never  thought 
he  had  to  explain  anything  to  his  own  understand 
ing.  Had  he  tried,  he  would  have  been  utterly  at  a 
loss  for  an  explanation.  So  Jasper  Wald  had  come 
to  look  upon  the  shadow  as  a  sign  of  luck;  a  super 
stition-fostered  thing  that  epitomized  his  genius  to 
himself. 

Naturally  it  had  not  always  been  that  way.  The 
first  time  that  Jasper  Wald  had  felt  the  shadow  he 
had  experienced  an  uncanny  sense  of  terror.  That 
had  been  before  he  had  really  seen  it. 

He  had  been  standing  there  beside  the  window 
just  after  he  and  Ellen  had  moved  into  their  home, 
looking  out  at  the  closed  house  opposite.  He  had 
felt  a  queer  oppression  which  he  readily  interpreted 
as  the  vibration  of  his  new  environment.  When 
the  thing  had  persisted  he  had  become  a  bit 
uneasy.  The  sense  of  oppression  so  utterly  unknown 
to  him  had  changed  to  one  which  grew  upon  him;  as 
if  he  were  being  forced  out  of  himself  in  some  un 
canny  manner. 

There  was  about  it   all   a   curious   sensation   of 


THE  SHADOW  93 

remoteness  of  self  and  at  the  same  time  a  weird 
consciousness  of  the  haunting  permeation  of  some 
thing  invisible  and  dynamic. 

He  never  thought  back  to  that  evening  without  a 
positive  horror.  The  whole  thing  was  so  completely 
alien  to  him. 

It  had  been  with  a  great  sense  of  relief  that  he 
had,  finally,  been  able  to  see  and  to  rivet  his  at 
tention  upon  the  shadow  there  against  the  blind  of 
the  house  opposite.  He  had  clinched  his  thought 
onto  it.  And  the  other  thing  had  left  him;  had 
lessened  in  its  maddening  oppression. 

That  evening  he  had  started  to  write.  He  had 
felt  that  writing  was  a  thing  he  had  to  do.  It  was 
entirely  because  of  his  first  fear  that  he  kept  the 
knowledge  of  the  shadow  to  himself. 

Cock  sure  as  he  was  of  himself,  thoroughly  cer 
tain  of  his  genius,  and  inordinately  vain  of  his  suc 
cess,  there  was  one  thing  about  it  all  that  Jasper 
Wald  could  not  quite  make  out.  Not  for  worlds 
would  he  have  admitted  it.  Still  there  was  the  one 
thing.  And  the  one  thing  was  that  Jasper  Wald 
could  not  understand  the  kind  of  thought  behind 
what  he  himself  wrote. 

It  was  late  one  summer  evening  that  Jasper  Wald 
sat  at  his  desk  in  the  square  living  room;  his  pen  was 
in  his  hand;  a  pile  of  blank  paper  made  a  white 
patch  on  the  dark  wood  before  him.  His  blue  eyes 
that  bulged  a  bit  looked  out  into  the  graying  half 
light.  The  green  of  the  lawn  was  matted  with  dark 
shadows.  A  mist  of  shadows  were  pressed  into  the 


94  THE  SCARECROW 

faint  lined  leaves  of  the  two  drooping  willow  trees 
on  either  side  of  the  wicker  gate.  An  unreal  light 
held  in  the  sky. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  one  window  of  the 
house  opposite.  With  his  pen  in  his  hand,  Jasper 
Wald  waited. 

From  somewhere  in  the  house  came  the  chimes  of 
a  clock  striking  the  half  hour. 

Starting  from  his  chair,  Jasper  Wald  went  to  the 
side  of  the  desk  and  leaned  far  out  of  the  window. 
A  wave  of  heat  came  up  to  him  from  the  earth. 
His  eyes  stared  intently  at  the  window  opposite. 

The  door  behind  him  was  thrown  open.  He 
turned  to  see  Ellen's  tall,  not  ungraceful,  figure 
standing  in  the  doorway.  Her  two  hands  grasped 
the  bowl  of  a  lighted  lamp. 

"I  don't  need  that." 

Jasper  Wald  told  it  to  her  impatiently. 

She  came  a  step  into  the  room. 

"It's  dark  in  here,  Jasper." 

"But  I  don't  need  any  more  light,  Ellen.  I  don't 
need  it,  I  tell  you!" 

"It's  dark  in  here,  Jasper." 

"All  right,  then;  put  the  thing  down,  I  can't 
take  up  my  time  arguing  with  you.  How  can  a 
man  write  in  a  place  like  this,  anyway?  Have  you 
no  consideration?  Must  I  always  be  disturbed? 
Have  you  no  respect  for  genius?" 

She  came  a  step  further  toward  the  center  of  the 
room. 

"Genius, — Jasper  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  95 

"My  genius,  Ellen.    Mine." 

He  watched  her  cross  the  room  with  that  odd,  sin 
uous  moving  of  hers  and  place  the  lamp  in  the 
center  of  his  desk.  And  then  he  saw  her  go  to  a 
chair  within  its  light  and,  sitting  down,  pick  up  some 
sewing  which  she  had  left  there. 

He  went  back  and  sat  at  his  desk. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  this  new  book  of 
his  would  be  something  big;  something  bigger  than 
he  had  ever  done  before.  He  wanted  to  write  a 
stupendous  thing. 

He  caught  up  his  pen  and  dipped  it  in  the  ink. 

She  startled  him  with  a  quick  cough. 

"Can't  you  be  still?"  He  turned  toward  her. 
"You  know  I  can't  write  if  I'm  bothered.  You  don't 
have  to  sit  in  here  if  you're  going  to  cough  your  head 
off.  There're  plenty  of  other  rooms  in  the  house." 

She  half  rose  from  her  chair. 

"D'you  want  me  to  go?" 

"Oh,  sit  there,"  he  muttered  irritably.  "Only, 
for  heaven's  sake  be  still !" 

"Yes,  Jasper." 

All  of  his  books  had  brought  him  fame;  but  this 
one;  this  one  would  bring  him  fame  with  something 
else.  This  book  would  be  the  great  work  that  would 
show  to  people  the  staggering  power  of  one  man's 
mind;  his  mind. 

His  eyes  that  stared  at  the  window  of  the  house 
opposite  came  back  to  '.he  pile  of  blank  paper  which 
made  a  white  patch  on  the  dark  wood  before  him. 


96  THE  SCARECROW 

Without  any  definite  idea  he  began  to  write.  A 
word.  A  sentence.  A  paragraph. 

He  tore  the  thing  up  without  stopping  to  read  it. 

Ellen's  dull-toned  voice  came  to  him  through  the 
stillness  of  the  room. 

"Anything  wrong,  Jasper  ?" 

"Wrong?     What  should  be  wrong?" 

"I  don't  know." 

He  began  to  write  again. 

He  looked  out  of  his  window  at  the  window  of 
the  house  opposite. 

He  went  on  with  his  writing  till  he  had  covered 
the  whole  page.  Again  he  tore  the  paper  up  and 
threw  it  from  him. 

"I'm  going,  Jasper." 

He  turned  to  see  her  standing  in  the  center  of  the 
room,  her  heavily  lidded  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor. 

"I  told  you  you  could  stay  here!" 

"I'd  best  be  going,  Jasper." 

"Sit  down,  over  there;  and  do  be  still." 

"I  seem  to  bother  you.  You  haven't  started  to 
write.  Is  it  because  I'm  here,  Jasper?" 

"You!"  He  snorted  contemptuously.  "What've 
you  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  quietly,  and  she  went 
back  to  her  chair. 

Again  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  one  window. 
He  leaned  forward  quickly.  His  hands  gripped  the 
chair's  arms  on  either  side  of  him.  His  brows  drew 
down  together  above  the  bulging  blue  eyes. 


THE  SHADOW  97 

Thrown  on  the  clear  blank  of  the  window  blind, 
moving  to  and  fro  across  it,  went  the  shadow. 

With  a  sharp  sigh  of  relief  Jasper  Wald  began  to 
write. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  gotten  far  down  the  page 
that  he  became  suddenly  conscious  of  Ellen  stand 
ing  directly  behind  him. 

He  looked  over  at  the  window.  The  shadow  was 
still  there. 

"What  is  it?    What  d'you  want?" 

The  lamplight  brought  out  her  features,  good 
and  very  regular  and  still  somewhat  nondescript. 
The  lamplight  showed  her  strange  green  eyes  and 
beneath  the  heavy  lids  the  lamplight  brought  out 
in  a  glinting  streak  the  expression  of  the  eyes 
themselves. 

"What  made  you  do  that,  Jasper?" 

"I'm  trying  to  write.  You  keep  interrupting  me. 
What  are  you  talking  about?  Made  me  do  what?" 

"Made  you  write,  Jasper." 

"Don't  I  always  write?" 

"Yes,  Jasper.  Always.  All  of  a  sudden — ;  like 
that." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"What  makes  you  do  it,  Jasper?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  can't  you  leave  me  alone?" 

"D'you  know  what  makes  you  do  it,  Jasper?" 

"Of  course  I  know." 

"Well,  what?" 

"My — it's  my  inspiration!" 

"That  comes";  she  spoke  slowly.     "Every  night 


gS  THE  SCARECROW 

when  you  look  out  of  the  window.  That's  how  it 
comes,  Jasper." 

"Look  out  of  the  window?  Why  shouldn't  I 
look  out  of  the  window?" 

"What  is  it  you  see?  Over  there;  in  that  house; 
in  that  one  window?" 

He  looked  across  the  way  at  the  shadow  moving 
to  and  fro  against  the  window  blind. 

He  started  to  his  feet  so  suddenly  that  his  chair 
crashed  to  the  floor  behind  him.  Fie  faced  her 
angrily. 

"What  under  the   sun's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Nothing." 

"Then  why  can't  you  leave  me  alone?" 

"I  want  to  know,  Jasper." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  want." 

"Yes,  Jasper;  I — want — to — know — " 

"Leave  the  room,"  he  said  furiously.  "Leave 
the  room!  I've  got  to  write!" 

She  started  for  the  door. 

"You've  got  to  write?"  Her  words  came  back 
to  him  across  the  length  of  the  room  with  a  curious 
insistence.  "You've — got — to — write,  Jasper?" 

He  waited  until  the  door  closed  behind  her  and 
then  he  went  back  to  his  desk. 

What  had  she  meant  by  that  last  question  of 
hers?  Didn't  she  know  that  he  'had  to  write? 
Didn't  she  realize  that  he  had  to  write? 

And  this  book  of  his;  this  book  that  was  to  be 
the  biggest  thing  that  he  had  yet  done. 

"Ellen,"  he  called.     "Ellen!" 


THE  SHADOW  09 

He  heard  her  feet  coming  toward  him  along  the 
passageway. 

She  came  back  into  the  room  as  though  nothing 
had  happened. 

uYes,  Jasper?" 

"What — what  did  you  mean  by  that,  Ellen?  By 
what  you  just  said?" 

She  faced  him  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you,  Jasper." 

"Well?" 

Her  hands  hung  quite  quietly  at  her  sides. 

"I've  put  up  with  you  for  a  long  time,  Jasper. 
I  haven't  said  very  much,  you  know." 

"What?"     He  stuttered. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  went  on  evenly.  "If  it  weren't  for 
your  vanity  you'd  have  realized  long  ago  what  a 
contemptible  little  man  you  really  are." 

He  interrupted  her. 

"Ellen!" 

His  tone  was  astonished. 

"You're  so  full  of  yourself  that  you  can't  see 
anything  else.  You're  so  full  of  that  genius — ;  of 
— yours — " 

"You  don't  have  to  speak  of  that — ;  you  can 
leave  that  out  of  it — ;  you've  nothing  to  do  with 
it — ;  with  my  genius." 

"Your  genius."  She  laughed  then.  "It's  your 
genius,  Jasper,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  you!" 

"Nothing — to — do — with — me  ?" 

"No,  Jasper.     I  haven't  been  blind." 

"Blind?" 


ioo  THE  SCARECROW 

"I've  seen,  Jasper;  sitting  here  night  after  night 
in  this  room  with  you;  Fve  seen." 

"What?" 

"Over  there — ;  in  the  house  opposite." 

"You  mean—" 

"And  you  can't  write  without  it,  Jasper!  You 
couldn't  write  before  and  you  can't  write  now  with 
out  it.  It  isn't  you.  It  isn't  you  who  writes.  It's 
something — something  working  through  you.  And 
you  call  it  your  own.  Jasper,  you're  a  fool!" 

"Ellen,  how  dare  you !" 

"Dare!" 

She  spoke  the  word  disdainfully.  He  had  never 
in  his  whole  life  seen  her  this  way;  he  had  never 
thought  to  see  her  like  this ;  but  then,  he  had  never 
given  Ellen  much  thought  of  any  kind. 

"It's  you  who're  the  fool."  He  was  furious.  "It's 
I  who've  always  been  the  brains;  if  you  could  you'd 
have  hampered  me  with  your  stupidity.  But  you 
couldn't.  I  shut  you  quite  outside.  I  nurtured  my 
own  genius.  If  I'd  have  left  things  to  you,  I'd 
have  been  down  and  out  by  now;  and  that's  all 
there  is  to  it." 

"No!"  Her  voice  rang  through  the  room.  "I 
won't  let  you  say  that,  Jasper.  I'll  tell  you  the 
truth  now.  And  take  it  or  leave  it  as  you  will.  You 
won't  be  able  to  get  away  from  it.  Not  if  I  tell  you 
the  truth,  Jasper.  There'll  be  no  getting  away  from 
it!" 

"Truthr— ;  about  what?" 

"You  and  your  genius.    I  wouldn't  have  told  you 


THE  SHADOW  roi 

but  it's  no  good  going  on  like  this.  I  thought  there 
was  some  hope  for  you;  I  couldn't  think  any  human 
being  would  be  as  self-satisfied,  as  disgustingly  ma 
terial  as  you  are.  Why,  if  you  have  a  soul,  but  you 
haven't,  and  I  thought —  God,  how  I  hoped!" 

He  started  to  speak.    He  could  not  find  his  voice. 

She  went  on  presently  in  that  quiet,  monotonous 
voice  which  had  been  hers  for  so  many  years. 

"You  left  me  alone;  I  wouldn't  have  complained; 
I  wouldn't  complain  now  if  you  had  some  excuse  for 
it.  It  all  made  me  different.  There's  no  use  in  tell 
ing  you  how;  you  couldn't  understand.  But  I  got 
to  feeling  things  I'd  never  felt  before;  and  then  I 
saw  things.  And  after  a  while  I  found  I  could  bring 
those  things  to  me.  And  that  night,  the  first  night 
we  moved  in  here — " 

He  interrupted  her  in  spite  of  himself. 

"What  of  that  night?    What?" 

"That  night  when  you  were  standing  there  at 
the  window  I  got  down  on  my  knees  and  prayed.  I 
brought  something  to  you  that  night.  And  you 
called  the  genius  yours."  She  broke  off  and  was 
silent  for  a  second.  "I  brought  it  to  you  because 
I  wanted  you  to  be  great.  I  thought  with  all  that 
energy  of  yours  for  writing  that  if  it  could  work 
through  you,  you'd  be  big.  But  you  were  too  small 
for  it!  You  tried  to  make  it  a  thing  of  your  own. 
And  I've  held  on  to  it.  For  six  years  I've  kept  it 
here  with  you;  and  now  it's  going.  I'm  letting  it 
go  back  again.  You're  too  small;  you  can't  ever  be 
anything  but  just — you!" 


102  THE  SCARECROW 

He  walked  over  to  his  desk,  and  sank  down  into 
the  arm  chair. 

"I  don't — know — what — you're — t  a  1  k  i  n  g — 
about." 

"You  do !  And  if  you  don't,  why  do  you  look  out 
of  the  window  there  every  night?  Why  d'you  wait 
for  it  to  come,  before  you  start  to  write?" 

His  exclamation  was  involuntary. 

"The  shadow!" 

"Yes.  Its  shadow — ;  from  this  room  where  I 
kept  it — casting — over — there — its — shadow." 

So  that  was  what  she  meant.  The  superstition- 
fostered  thing  that  epitomized  his  genius  to  himself. 
The  shadow  that  he  had  come  to  look  upon  as  a  sign 
of  luck.  But  it  was  nonsense.  It  wasn't  possible; 
not  such  rot  as  that.  It  was  his  mind;  the  big 
creative  mind  of  him  that  wrote. 

"Have  you  said  all  you're  going  to  say?" 

For  a  second  her  gaze  met  his  and  then  the  heavy 
lids  came  down  again  over  those  strange  green  eyes, 
hiding  all  expression. 

"Yes,  Jasper." 

He  looked  out  of  the  window.  His  eyes  stared 
through  the  night  beyond  the  two  shadowy,  droop 
ing  willow  trees  on  either  side  of  the  wicker  gate 
and  over  at  the  house  opposite.  He  caught  his 
breath.  The  yellow  light  from  the  lamp  on  his 
desk  played  across  the  clear  blank  of  the  window 
blind  across  the  way.  The  shadow  had  gone. 

"Ellen—"    His  voice  was  hoarse.     "Ellen!" 

"What  is  it?" 


THE  SHADOW  103 

"It's  not  there,  Ellen — ;  six  years;  now — ;  why, 
Ellen—" 

She  went  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  beside  the 
desk. 

"Yes." 

"It  isn't  there!    I  tell  you— " 

"I  thought  it  could  make  no  difference  to  you!" 

"It  was— lucky— Ellen." 

"Oh,  lucky,  Jasper?" 

He  made  an  effort  to  pull  himself  together. 

"It  won't  make  any  difference  to  me — not  to  my 
writing;  not  to  my  genius." 

After  the  silence  of  a  moment  her  voice  came 
to  him  in  its  low  even  measure. 

"Then—;  write!" 

"Of  course."  His  tone  was  high  pitched,  hys 
terical.  "Naturally  I'll  write." 

"Write,  Jasper." 

He  caught  up  his  pen  and  dipped  it  in  the  ink. 
He  drew  the  white  pile  of  paper  nearer  to  him. 

"Jasper— " 

"How  can  I  work  if  you  don't  stop  talking?  How 
can  I  do  anything?  How  can  I  write?" 

"Are — you — writing — Jasper?    Are — you — ?" 

He  did  not  answer  her. 

"Because;"  she  went  on  very  quietly.  "It's  gone 
back,  Jasper.  It's — gone — now — " 

His  pen  went  to  and  fro;  to  and  fro  across 
the  page.  His  figure  was  bent  well  over  the  desk. 
Every  now  and  again,  without  moving,  his  bulging 
blue  eyes  would  lift  themselves  to  the  clear  blank 


io4  THE  SCARECROW 

blind  of  the  window  opposite  and  then  they  would 
come  back  and  fix  themselves  intently  upon  the  white 
page  of  paper  which  he  was  so  busily  covering  with 
stupid,  meaningless  little  drawings. 


THE  EFFIGY 


THE  EFFIGY 

MR.  EVANS  is  upstairs  in  the  library,  ma'am." 
Genevieve  Evans  hurried  through  the  hall 
and  up  the   steps.     She   pulled  off   her  gloves   as 
she  went.     She  rolled  them  into  a  hard,  small  ball 
and  tucked  them  automatically  in  her  muff. 

She  had  hoped  that  she  would  get  there  before 
him.  She  had  been  thinking  of  that  all  during  the 
quick  rush  home.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  had 
a  moment  to  pull  herself  together.  After  what  she 
had  been  through  she  wondered  if  she  could  keep 
from  going  all  to  pieces.  It  could  not  be  helped. 
She  did  not  even  know  if  she  cared  a  lot  about  it. 
She  was  quite  numbed.  He  was  there  ahead  of  her; 
there  in  the  library.  Of  all  the  rooms  in  the  house 
that  he  should  have  chosen  the  one  so  rarely  used. 
The  room  she  hated. 

At  the  door  of  the  library  she  paused  breathless. 

For  a  second  she  thought  the  long  dark  room 
empty. 

Then  she  saw  Ernest. 

He  was  standing  in  one  of  the  deep  windows. 
A  short  squat  figure  black  against  the  dim  yellow  of 
the  velvet  curtains.  One  hand  held  his  cigarette; 
the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  tapped  unevenly  on 
the  window  glass. 

107 


io8  THE  SCARECROW 

She  knew  then  that  he  must  have  seen  her  come 
into  the  house. 

"Ernest." 

He  turned. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  told  her  with 
studied  indifference.  "Where've  you  been,  Jenny?" 

She  took  a  step  into  the  room. 

"I'm  sorry,  Ernest.  I  didn't  know  you'd  be  home 
so  early." 

"It's  late.    Where've  you  been?" 

She  wondered  why  she  should  bother  avoiding 
answering  his  question. 

"Oh— out." 

Her  tone  was  vague. 

"No,"  he  scoffed.  "I  wouldn't  have  guessed  it. 
Really,  I  wouldn't!" 

She  loosened  the  fur  from  her  neck  and  tossed  it 
onto  the  center  table. 

"Don't,  Ernest." 

"Don't  what,  Jenny?" 

She  sank  down  into  the  depths  of  the  nearest 
chair. 

"Oh — nothing."  Her  hands  clinched  themselves. 
"Nothing." 

He  came  and  stood  quite  close  to  her.  He 
glanced  quickly  at  her,  puffing  the  while  at  his  ciga 
rette.  She  thought  he  looked  wicked  and  pagan; 
hideous  and  yellow  behind  the  rising  smoke.  His 
narrow  eyes  peered  at  her. 

"Well,  Jenny — out  with  it,  my  girl.  Where've 
you  been?" 


THE  EFFIGY  109 

She  looked  away  from  him.  Her  face  was  pale. 
In  the  twilight  shadowed  room  he  had  seen  how 
wide  and  strange  her  eyes  were. 

She  made  up  her  mind  then  that  it  was  not  worth 
bothering  about.  She  would  tell  him  the  truth.  She 
did  not  care  how  he  took  it. 

"I've  been  to  see — ;  to — see — father — " 

She  whispered  the  words.  Her  eyes  wavered 
back  to  his  face. 

"Good  heavens!"  He  laughed  harshly.  "After 
all  you  said?" 

"Yes." 

"Rather  a  joke,  that." 

"No.     There  wasn't  anything  funny  about  it." 

"Well.     Was  the  old  man  surprised?" 

"No.      He  told  me   he   knew   I'd   come — some 


time." 


"Wise  old  beggar,  Daniel  Drare!" 

Her  breath  came  quickly;  unevenly. 

"He's  a  devil,  Ernest!  That's  what  he  is — ; 
he's—" 

He  interrupted  her. 

"Not  so  fast,  Jenny.  You  went  there  to  see  him, 
you  know." 

"But,  Ernest,  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  I 
— simply — couldn't — " 

He  walked  deliberately  over  to  the  screened  fire 
place  and  tossed  his  cigarette  into  it. 

"Whyd'yougotohim?" 

"You  know  why  I  went." 

"Why!" 


no  THE  SCARECROW 

She  had  felt  right  along  that  he  must  be  made  to 
understand  it.  She  could  not  see  why  he  had  not 
known  before. 

"Oh,  don't  pretend  any  more.  I'm  sick  of  it. 
You  know  I'm  sick  of  it." 

His  brows  drew  together  in  an  angry  frown. 

"Sick  of  what?     Eh,  Jenny?" 

Her  eyes  crept  away  from  his  and  went  miserably 
about  the  room.  They  took  no  note  of  the  rare  old 
furniture;  of  the  dark  paneled  walls;  of  the  color 
mellowed  tapestries.  She  sat  looking  at  it  all 
blindly.  Then  her  eyes  raised  themselves  a  bit. 
She  found  herself  staring  at  the  picture  hung  just 
above  the  wood  carved  mantel.  The  famous  pic 
ture.  The  work  of  the  great  artist.  The  picture 
before  which  she  had  stood  and  hated;  and  hated. 
The  picture  which  was  the  pride  and  portrait  of  her 
father,  Daniel  Drare. 

She  got  to  her  feet. 

"I'm  sick  of  you — ;"  she  said  it  quite  calmly. 
"And — I'm  sick — of — him."  She  nodded  her  head 
in  the  direction  of  the  portrait.  "I'd  do  anything 
to  get  away  from  both  of  you — anything!" 

He  smiled. 

"You'll  not  get  away  from  me,"  he  told  her. 

"You — !"  The  one  word  was  contemptuous. 
"You  don't  really  count." 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

He  still  smiled. 

"I  mean  what  I  say."  Her  voice  was  tired. 
"You're  nothing — ;  nothing  but — oh,  a  kind  of  a 


THE  EFFIGY  in 

henchman  to  him.  That's  all  you  are.  Not  that 
he  needs  you.  He  doesn't  need  any  one.  He's  too 
unscrupulously  powerful  for  that.  He's  never 
needed  any  one.  Not  you.  Nor — me.  He  didn't 
even  need  my  mother.  He  broke  her  heart  and  let 
her  die  because  he  didn't  need  her.  I  think  you 
know  he's  like  that.  You're  no  different  where  he's 
concerned  than  the  others." 

"After  all— I'm  your  husband!" 

"That's  the  ghastly  part  of  it.  You — my — hus 
band.  You're  only  my  husband  because  of  him. 
You  knew  that  when  I  married  you,  didn't  you? 
You  knew  the  lies  he  told  me  when  he  wanted  me  to 
marry  you.  You  never  contradicted  them.  And  I 
was  too  silly,  too  young  to  know.  I  wanted  to  get 
away  from  it  all;  and  from  him.  I  couldn't  guess 
that  you — d'you  think,  Ernest,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
those  lies  I'd  have  married  you?  Do  you?" 

aOh,  I  don't  know.  I  usually  get  what  I  want, 
Jenny." 

"And  why  do  you  get  it?    Why?" 

"Perhaps  because  I  want  it." 

She  laughed  harshly. 

"Because  Daniel  Drare  gets  it  for  you.  Because 
he's  had  everything  all  his  life.  Because  he's  be 
hind  you  for  the  time  being.  That's  why!" 

"And  what  if  it  is?" 

"My  God!"  She  muttered.  "I  can't  make  you 
understand.  I  can't  even  talk  to  either  of  you." 

"You  went  to  see  him !" 

"I  went  to  him  to  tell  him  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 


li  1 2  THE  SCARECROW 

longer.  I  begged  him  to  help  me;  just — this — once 
— I  told  him  I  couldn't  go  on  this  way.  I  told  him  I 
couldn't  bear  any  more.  I  told  him  the  truth;  that 
I'd—I'd  go  mad." 

" What  did  he  say?    Eh,  Jenny?" 

For  a  second  her  eyes  closed. 

"He  laughed.    Laughed—" 

"Of  course!" 

"There's  no  'of  course'  about  it.  I'm  serious. 
Deadly  serious." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Jenny.  If  you  ask  me  I'd  say 
you  were  mighty  well  off.  Your  father  gives  you 
everything  you  want.  Your  husband  gives  you 
everything  you  want.  There  isn't  a  man  in  the 
whole  city  who  has  more  power  than  Daniel  Drare. 
Or  more  money  for  that  matter.  You  ought  to  be 
jolly  well  satisfied." 

She  waited  a  full  moment  before  speaking. 

"Maybe  I'm  a  fool,  Ernest.  Maybe  I  am.  A 
weak,  helpless  kind  of  a  fool.  But  I'm  not  happy, 
Ernest.  I  can't  go  this  kind  of  a  life  any  more.  It's 
gotten  unreal  and  horrible.  And  the  kind  of  things 
you  do  to  make  money;  the  kind  of  things  you're 
proud  of.  They  prey  on  me,  Ernest.  There's  noth 
ing  about  all  this  that's  clean.  It's  making  me  ill; 
the  rottenness  of  this  sort  of  living.  I'm  not  happy. 
Doesn't  that  mean  anything  to  you?" 

"Nonsense.  You've  no  reason  for  not  being 
happy.  The  trouble  with  you,  Jenny,  is  that  you've 
too  lively  an  imagination." 

"Oh,  no,  Ernest.     I've  got  to  get  away.     Some- 


THE  EFFIGY  113 

where — anywhere.  Just  by  myself.  I  don't  love 
you,  Ernest.  You  don't  really  love  me.  It's  only 
because  I'm  Daniel  Drare's  daughter  that  you  mar 
ried  me.  It  was  just  his  wealth  and  his  power  and 
— and  his  unscrupulous  self  that  fascinated  you." 

uYou  don't  know  what  you're  saying." 

"I  do,  I  do,  Ernest!  You'd  like  to  be  like  him. 
But  you  can't.  You  are  like  him  in  a  lot  of  ways. 
The  little  ways.  But  you're  not  big  enough  to  be 
really  like  him.  Let  me  go,  Ernest.  Before  it's  too 
late; — let  me  go!" 

He  came  and  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"I'll  never  let  you  go,"  he  said. 

"You  must!"  She  whispered.  "YouVe  got  to  let 
me.  Just  to  get  away  from  all  this.  I've  never 
been  away  in  all  my  life.  He'd  never  let  me  go — 
either." 

Unconsciously  her  eyes  went  up  to  the  picture. 

The  full,  red  face  with  the  hard  lines  in  it.  The 
thick,  sensual  lips.  The  small,  cunning  eyes  that 
laughed.  The  ponderous,  heavy  set  of  the  figure. 
The  big,  powerful  hands. 

His  gaze  followed  after  hers. 

And  very  suddenly  he  left  her  side.  He  walked 
over  to  the  mantel. 

"Funny,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Jolly  strange 
—that!" 

Her  fingers  clutched  at  her  breast. 

"Ernest — !     What' re  you  doing?" 

"Can  you  see  anything  wrong  here,  Jenny?" 

He  was  looking  up  at  the  portrait. 


ii4  THE  SCARECROW 

"Wrong?"  She  said  it  beneath  her  breath. 
"Wrong—" 

He  reached  up  a  hand.  He  drew  his  fingers 
across  the  canvas. 

"By  Jove!"  His  voice  was  excited.  "So  it  is. 
Thought  I  wasn't  crazy.  When  could  it  have  hap 
pened,  eh?  Ever  notice  this,  Jenny?" 

She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  his  hand  that 
was  going  over  and  over  the  canvas  along  the  arm 
of  the  painted  figure. 

"Can't  you  see  it,  Jenny?" 

"I — I  can't  see  anything." 

She  whispered  it. 

"Come  over  here — ;  where  I  am." 

She  hesitated. 

"Ernest,  what's  the  sense?  How  can  you  see  in 
this  light  anyway,  how — " 

He  did  not  let  her  finish. 

"Come  here!" 

Slowly  she  went  toward  him. 

"What  is  it,  Ernest?    What?" 

"A  crack?"  His  hand  still  worked  across  it. 
"In  the  paint — here  along  the  arm.  Or  a  cut,  or 
something.  How  under  the  sun  could  it  have  hap 
pened?  We've  got  to  have  it  fixed  somehow. 
Never  heard  of  such  a  thing  before.  Old  Daniel 
Drare'll  be  as  sore  as  a  crab  if  ever  he  gets  wind 
of  this.  It'd  be  like  hurting  him  to  touch  this 
portrait.  He  certainly  does  think  the  world  of  it! 
How  could  it  have  happened; — that's  what  I'd  like 
to  know," 


THE  EFFIGY  115 

"I — I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about — I 
|»» 

"Here!  Can't  you  sec  it?  It's  as  plain  as  the 
nose  on  your  face.  Along  the  arm.  It's  a  cut. 
Right  into  the  canvas.  You  can  run  your  finger  in 
it.  Give  me  your  hand." 

She  shrank  back  from  him. 

"No— no,  Ernest." 

He  stared  at  her  intently. 

"You  do  look  seedy.  You'd  better  go  up  and  lie 
down.  I've  got  to  dress  for  dinner,  anyway.  We'll 
have  to  have  this  fixed." 

He  started  for  the  door. 

She  blocked  his  way. 

"Will — you — let — me — go,   Ernest?" 

"Don't  start  that  again." 

"All  right.     I  won't!" 

"That's  a  sensible  girl,  Jenny.  Even  your  father 
had  to  laugh  at  you  when  you  told  him  the  way  you 
feel.  It  isn't  natural.  It's  just  nerves,  I  guess.  You 
could  stick  it  out  with  Daniel  Drare.  You  can  stick 
it  out  with  me.  Look  here,  Daniel  Drare's  a  great 
old  fellow,  but  I'm  not  as  crude  in  some  things  as  he 
is;  am  I,  Jenny?" 

"You  would  be  if  you  could."  Her  voice  was 
singsong.  "You  haven't  his  strength;  that's  all." 

"I'm  not  as  crude  as  he  is." 

"You  haven't  his  strength,"  she  droned. 

"I've  enough  strength  to  keep  you  here;  if  that's 
what  you  mean." 

"No,  it's  not  what  I  mean."    A  puzzled  look  crept 


n6  THE  SCARECROW 

across  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  suddenly  furtive. 
"Maybe  I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  But  I  don't 
think  it's  you.  I  don't  think  you  count.  It's  him. 
It's  Daniel  Drare!  He's  behind  it  all.  I  don't 
think  I  quite  know  what  I'll  do  about  it.  I  must  do 
something!  I  mustn't  be  angry!" 

He  stared  at  her. 

"You'd  best  come  along  if  you're  going  to  dress." 

"I'll  be  up  in  a  moment,"  she  said. 

When  he  was  gone  she  went  over  to  the  window. 

She  stood  there  gazing  out  into  the  darkened 
quiet  side-street.  She  was.  trembling  in  every  limb. 
Now  and  again  she  would  half  turn.  Her  eyes 
would  go  slowly,  warily  toward  the  portrait  hanging 
there  over  the  mantel  and  then  they  would  hurry 
away  again. 

She  started  nervously  when  the  butler  knocked  at 
the  door. 

"What  is  it,  Williams?" 

"Mr.  Drare's  housekeeper,  ma'am.  She'd  like 
to  see  you,  ma'am.  I  said  I'd  ask." 

"Show  her  in  here,  Williams." 

The  man  left  the  room. 

She  walked  over  to  the  farther  corner  of  the  room 
and  switched  on  the  lights. 

She  heard  footsteps  in  the  hall. 

She  stood  quite  still;  waiting. 

Footsteps —    Nearer — 

A  middle-aged  woman  very  plainly  dressed  was 
in  the  doorway. 

"Miss  Genevieve — " 


THE  EFFIGY  117 

"Nannie  I" 

"Miss  Genevieve.  I  wouldn't  have  come;  only 
I've  got  to  tell  you." 

"What,  Nannie?     Come  and  sit  down,  Nannie." 

The  woman  came  into  the  room.  For  a  second 
she  paused,  and  then  hurriedly  she  closed  the  door 
behind  her. 

"No,  Miss  Genevieve.  I'll  not  sit  down. 
Thank  you.  I  can't  be  staying  long.  He  might 
want  me.  I  wouldn't  like  him  to  know  I  was  here." 

The  muscles  on  either  side  of  Genevieve  Evans' 
mouth  pulled  and  twitched. 

"So?    You're  frightened  too,  Nannie!" 

She  said  the  words  to  herself. 

The  woman  heard  her. 

"That  I  am,  Miss.  And  that  I've  got  good  rea 
son  to  be;  the  same  as  you,  my  poor  Miss  Gene 


vieve." 


"Yes,  yes,  Nannie.    What  was  it  you  wanted?" 

The  woman  stood  quite  rigid. 

"You  was  there,  Miss — this  afternoon?" 

"Yes—" 

"Did  you  notice  anything,  Miss?" 

She  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"What  d'you  mean,  Nannie?    Nannie,  what?" 

"It's  him,  Miss.     It  was  last  night — " 

The  woman  broke  off. 

"Yes,  Nannie;"  Genevieve  Evans  urged. 

"I  don't  rightly  know  how  to  tell  it  to  you,  Miss. 
It's  hard  to  find  the  words  to  say  it  in.  He'd 
kill  me  if  he  knew  I  come  here  and  told  you.  But 


n8  THE  SCARECROW 

you  got  to  know.  I  can't  keep  it  to  myself.  He's 
been  fierce  of  late.  What  with  making  so  much 
more  money.  And  the  drinking,  Miss.  And  the 
women.  The  women,  they're  there  all  hours,  now." 

"My  mother's  house!''  Genevieve  Evans  said  it 
uncertainly. 

"Yes,  Miss,"  the  woman  went  on.  "And  it  was 
almost  as  bad  when  she  lived." 

"I  know,  Nannie.     I've  always  known!" 

"But  last  night,  Miss;  after  they'd  gone.  I  was 
asleep,  Miss  Genevieve.  It  woke  me.  It  was  aw 
ful.  Plain  horrid,  Miss." 

"What— Nannie?" 

"The  scream,  Miss —    A  shriek  of  pain." 

"No, — no,  Nannie!"  Genevieve  Evans  inter 
rupted  wildly.  "Don't  say  it!  Don't!" 

The  woman  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"Why,  Miss  Genevieve —    Poor,  little  lamb." 

"Nannie,  Nannie."  She  made  a  tremendous  ef 
fort  to  control  herself.  "What  was  it  you  were 
going  to  say?" 

"The  scream,  Miss.  In  the  night.  I  rushed 
down.  I  knocked  at  his  door.  He  wouldn't  let 
me  in.  He  was  moaning,  Miss.  And  cursing.  And 
moaning.  He  was  swearing  about  a  knife.  I 
listened,  Miss — at  the  keyhole.  I  was  scared.  He 
kept  cursing  and  moaning  about  a  knife;  about  his 


arm—" 


"Nannie—" 

She  whispered  the  word  beneath  her  breath. 

"Yes,  Miss.     Cut  in  the  arm.    He  would  have  it 


THE  EFFIGY  119 

that  way.  And  he  wouldn't  let  me  in.  I  waited  for 
houra.  And  this  morning  I  went  into  his  room  my 
self.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  I  pretended  I 
wanted  the  linen  for  the  wash.  I  was  looking  for 
blood,  Miss.  Not  a  drop  did  I  find.  Not  a  pin 
prick  stain.  But  I  seen  him  bandaging  his  arm; 
right  in  front  of  me  he  did  it.  And  then  I  seen  him 
rip  the  bandage  off." 

"Nannie—" 

"It's  his  reason  I  fear  for,  Miss.  He  turns  to  me 
and  asks  me  if  I  can  see  the  cut." 

"Yes?    Yes,  Nannie?" 

"He  shows  me  his  arm.    And,  Miss — " 

The  woman  stopped  abruptly. 

"Nannie— what?     What?" 

Genevieve  Evans'  hands  had  gone  up  to  her 
throat. 

"There  wasn't  a  scratch; — not — a — scratch!" 

"Oh—"    She  breathed. 

"And  that's  why  I  came  here,  Miss.  To  ask  if 
he'd  said  anything  of  it  to  you.  Or  if — if  you'd 
noticed  anything,  Miss." 

Genevieve  Evans  waited  a  full  second  before  she 
answered: 

"No,  Nannie.  He  wouldn't  have  told  me.  I 
didn't  notice  anything.  I  wasn't  there  very  long. 
You  see  I  only  went  to  ask  him  to  let  me  get  away. 
Out  in  the  country — by  myself.  I  wanted  the  money 
to  go.  He  and — and  Mr.  Evans  never  give  me 
money,  Nannie.  Just  things — all  the  things,  I  want. 
Only  I'm  tired  of  things.  I  don't  quite  know  what  to 


120  THE  SCARECROW 

do.  When — I  think  about  it  I  get  very  angry.  I 
was  very  angry.  Last  night  I  was  very  angry !  I've 
such  funny  ideas  when  I'm  angry,  Nannie.  I  mustn't 
get  angry  again.  But  I've  got — to — get — away." 

"I  don't  blame  you,  Miss  Genevieve,  for  being 
angry.  You've  been  an  angel  all  your  life ;  all  your 
life  pent  up  like — like  a  saint — with — with— 
devils." 

"You — don't — blame — me — Nannie  ?" 
"No,  Lamb.     Not  your  Nannie.     Your  Nannie 
knows  what  it's  been  like  for  you.     I  know  him, 
Miss  Genevieve.     I  know  he  didn't  give  you  the 
money." 

"No,  Nannie.    He  laughed  at  me.    Laughed — " 
"He's  a  beast!     That's  what  he  is,  Miss.     He 
should  have  give  it  to  you.     And  him  going  away 
himself.     He  was  telling  me  only  to-day.     Into  the 
country." 
"What?" 

"Oh,  Miss.  I  hate  to  say  such  things  to  you. 
He's  going  with  that  black-haired  woman; — the 
latest  one,  she  is.  He  thinks  she  works  too  hard. 
He's  taking  her  off  for  a  rest.  Is  anything  the  mat 
ter?  Aren't  you  well,  darling?" 

Genevieve  Evans  swayed  dizzily  for  a  second 
her  one  hand  reaching  out  blindly  before  her. 

The  woman  came  quickly  and  took  the  hand  be 
tween  both  of  her  hands  and  stroked  it. 
"Nannie,  I'm  sick— sick!" 
"Nannie's  darling — ;  Nannie's  pet." 
From  somewhere  in  the  house  came  the  silvery, 


THE  EFFIGY  121 

tinkling    sound    of    a    clock    striking    seven    times. 

"I've  got  to  go,  Miss  Genevieve,  dear." 

"All  right,  Nannie." 

The  woman  drew  a  chair  up  and  pushed  her  gently 
into  it. 

"You'll  not  be  telling  him,  Miss?" 

"No,  Nannie — ;  no — " 

The  woman  started  for  the  door. 

uThank  you,  Miss  Genevieve." 

"Nannie — ;  you  said  he  was  taking  her — ;  the 
black-haired  one — ;  away  for  a — a  rest?  Away 
into  the  country?" 

With  her  hand  on  the  door-knob  the  woman 
turned. 

"Yes.    Why— lamb!" 

"Into  the  country."  Genevieve  Evans1  voice  was 
lifeless.  "Into  the  country  where  everything  is  quiet 
and  big — ;  and  clean.  You  said  that,  Nannie?" 

"I  said  the  country,  Miss  Genevieve,  dearie." 

"Nannie — Nannie — ;"  her  eyes  were  staring 
straight  before  her.  "I — want — to — go!" 

"Lamb— darling." 

The  woman  stood  undecided. 

"But  he  wouldn't  let  me.  He  laughed  at  me. 
Nannie,  he  laughed." 

The  woman  made  up  her  mind. 

"Will  Nannie  stop  with  you  a  bit,  Miss  Genevieve, 
dearie?" 

"You  said;"  Genevieve  Evans'  lifeless,  monoton 
ous  voice  went  on;  "you  said  you  wouldn't  blame 
me  for  being  angry.  I  get  very  angry,  Nannie. 


122  THE  SCARECROW 

Very  angry.  It  brings  all  kinds  of  things  to  me 
when  I  get  angry.  His  kind  of  things.  Rotten 
things.  And  he's  going  to  take  her  into  the  country; 
where  everything's  clean;  and  he  won't  let  me — go. 
God!" 

"Will  I  stay,  Miss  Genevieve?" 

"No,  Nannie — go!     Go  quickly!     Go — now!" 

"Yes,  Miss  Genevieve.  He'll  be  wanting  to  know 
where  I  am." 

"Go,  Nannie!"  She  half  rose  from  her  chair. 
The  door  closed  quietly  behind  the  woman.  "Go !" 
Genevieve  Evans  whispered.  "He's  going — into 
the  country — ;  he's  taking  that  woman.  He 
wouldn't  let  me.  He  wants  to  keep  me  here.  Just 
to  feel  his  power — ;  his  filthy  power.  He's  not  the 
only  one."  She  was  muttering  now.  "He's  not  the 
only  one  who  can  do  things.  Rotten — dirty  things! 
His  kind  of  things!" 

She  swayed  to  her  feet.  Her  steps  were  short  and 
uncertain.  Her  whole  body  reeled.  Her  face 
was  blanched;  drained  of  all  color.  Her  fingers 
trembled  wide  spread  at  her  sides.  She  was  quiver 
ing  from  head  to  foot. 

Only  her  eyes  were  steady;  her  eyes  wide  and 
dilated  that  were  riveted  on  the  portrait  hanging 
there  above  the  wood  carved  mantel. 

She  backed  toward  the  door,  her  eyes  glued  to  the 
picture. 

Her  shaking  fingers,  fumbling  behind  her,  found 
the  key  and  turned  it. 

Feeling  her  way  with  her  hands,  her  distended 


THE  EFFIGY  123 

eyes  still  fixed  on  that  one  thing,  she  got  to  the 
center  table. 

It  took  her  a  while  to  pull  open  the  drawer. 

Her  breath  came  raspingly;  as  if  she  had  been 
running. 

The  old  Venetian  dagger  with  the  cracked  jeweled 
handle  was  between  her  fingers. 

Very  slowly  now  she  went  toward  the  fire-place. 

The  electric  light  flared  over  the  colored  gems 
that  studded  the  handle  of  the  dagger,  giving  out 
.small  quick  rays  of  blue  and  red  and  green. 

"I'm  angry;"  she  whispered  hoarsely.  "I — I'm 
very  angry — with — you.  YouVe  no  right — ;  no 
right — to — ruin — my — life — -and  laugh!  You  did 
— laugh — at — me !" 

Her  eyes  stared  up  at  the  full,  red  face  with  the 
hard  lines  in  it.  Up  at  the  thick,  sensual  lips.  Up  at 
the  cunning  eyes.  At  the  ponderous,  heavy-set  fig 
ure.  The  powerful  hands. 

"Why — don't — you — laugh — now?  You  aren't 
afraid — are — you?  You — aren't — afraid  of — any 
thing?  Not  of — me — are — you — Daniel  Drare — ? 
YouVe — done — your — best — to — keep — m  e — u  n  - 
der — your  — power — ;  you — stood — behind — Ern 
est — to  keep — me  under — your — power.  You're — 
not — afraid — of — me  ?  Why — don't — you — laugh 
—Daniel— Drare?" 

Her  right  hand  that  held  the  dagger  raised  itself. 

"Laugh,  Daniel  Drare!     Laugh!" 

She  stood  there  under  the  portrait.     Her  left 


124  THE  SCARECROW 

hand  went  stiffly  out  feeling  over  the  long  cut  in  the 
painted  arm. 

"Angry — last — night."  She  whispered;  "And 
s — it — hurt — you.  Daniel  Drare — I — could — hurt 
—you!" 

For  a  second  her  eyes  went  up  to  the  dagger  held 
there  above  her  head ;  the  dagger  with  the  thousand 
colored  gleams  pointing  from  it. 

She  gave  a  quick  choking  laugh. 

"I  laugh — at — you — Daniel — Drare." 

With  all  her  strength  she  drove  the  dagger  into 
the  heart  of  the  canvas. 

She  staggered  back  to  the  center  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  gaping  rent  in  the  portrait. 

She  laughed  again;  stupidly.  Her  laughter  trailed 
off  and  stopped. 

She  stood  there  waiting. 

Once  she  thought  some  one  paused  outside  the 
door. 

Her  hands  were  up  across  her  eyes. 

Motionless  she  waited. 

Suddenly  she  gave  a  quick  start. 

Out  there  in  the  hall  a  telephone  had  rung. 

She  heard  her  husband  answer  it. 

Her  one  distinct  thought  was  that  he  must  have 
been  on  his  way  out  for  dinner. 

His  unbelieving  cry  came  to  her. 

"My  God!  it  can't—" 

Her  fingers  were  pressed  into  her  ears.  She  did 
not  want  to  hear  the  rest.  She  knew  it. 


THE  FAITH 


THE  FAITH 

THE  great  lady  fingered  the  pearls  that  circled 
her  throat. 

"Quite  true,"  she  murmured,  and  a  smile  crept  up 
about  the  corners  of  her  lips  and  lingered  there. 
"Really,  surprisingly  true." 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  and  the  heavily 
lidded  eyes  bent  a  bit  lower  over  her  charts  of  stars 
and  constellations. 

"This  year" — she  went  on  in  that  low,  undecided 
voice  of  hers — "this  year  Madame  has  had  a  big 
sorrow.  It  was  the  loss  to  Madame  of  a  young 
man.  He  was  tall  and  fair  like  Madame,  but  he 
had  not  Madame's  eyes.  He  had  courage,  Madame, 
and  a  soft  voice;  always  a  soft  voice.  He  went  on, 
this  young  one,  with  his  courage.  The  son  of 
Madame  died  in  the  early  Spring." 

The  great  lady's  hands  dropped  into  her  lap  and 
clinched  there :  the  knuckles  showing  white  and 
round  as  her  fingers  strained  against  each  other. 
Her  eyes  stared  hard  at  the  cracked  walls;  up  over 
the  low  ceiling,  toward  the  back  of  the  small  room 
that  was  divided  off  from  the  kitchen  by  a  loose- 
hung  plush  curtain;  out  through  the  one  window 
which  gave  on  to  the  street.  She  could  just  see  the 
heads  of  people  who  were  passing  and  the  faint, 

127 


128  THE  SCARECROW 

gray  shadows  of  the  late  evening  that  were  reaching 
in  dark  spots  up  along  the  rough,  white  walls  of  the 
house  opposite.  Her  eyes  came  dazedly  back  to  the 
room  and  the  chairs  and  the  table  before  which 
she  sat.  Two  giant  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks. 
The  smile  was  wiped  from  off  her  mouth. 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  had  waited. 

"There  is  another  here.  He  is  perhaps  a  little 
older  than  the  one  who  died.  He  has  not  that  one's 
courage.  He  is  very  careful  of  all  the  small  things; 
like  his  clothes  and  his  cigarettes  and  his  affections. 
The  big  things  he  has  never  known.  His  eyes  are 
like  the  eyes  of  Madame.  Madame  has  this  son  in 
the  war  now." 

"No — no!"  The  great  lady  leaned  across  the 
table.  "Don't  tell  me — not  that  he — I  couldn't  bear 
it !  Not — both — of — them !" 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  looked  up  quite 
suddenly  from  her  charts  of  stars  and  constellations. 
A  pitying  quiver  shook  over  her  face. 

"You  need  have  no  fear,  Madame.  He  is  not 
ready.  It  is  a  wound.  It  is  not  a  wound  that  gives 
death." 

The  great  lady  fingered  her  pearls  again. 

"You — you  quite  carried  me  away.  For  a  mo 
ment  you  startled  me." 

"I  regret  it,  Madame.  Perhaps  I  should  not  have 
said  anything." 

"Of  course  you  should  have.  I  told  you  that 
when  I  came  in,  didn't  I?  I  said  I  wanted  to  hear 
everything.  Everything  you  could  tell  me." 


THE  FAITH  129 

"Ah— yes,  Madame.11 

'Is  that  all,  now?  You're  certain  that  youVe  not 
forgotten  anything?"  And  she  pulled  at  her  gold 
mesh  bag,  which  was  studded  with  sapphires. 

"It  is  everything,  Madame.  Unless,  perhaps, 
Madame  has  some  question  she  would  like  to  ask 
of  me?" 

The  great  lady  drew  her  money  out  and  tossed 
it  on  the  table. 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  and  those  heav 
ily  lidded  eyes  did  not  touch  it.  The  great  lady  got 
to  her  feet  and  started  to  the  door.  Quite  suddenly 
she  stopped. 

"When — "  She  made  an  effort  to  steady  her 
voice.  "When  will  this  thing — ;  this  wound — 
come_?" 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  bent  over  the 
charts  again.  And  then  she  caught  up  a  pencil  and 
made  little  signs  on  the  yellow  paper  and  drew  a 
triangle  through  them  and  across  them  at  the  points. 

"The  fourth  day  of  the  second  month  from  now, 
Madame." 

The  great  lady  came  back  to  the  table  and  stood 
there  looking  down. 

"How  do  you  do  it?" 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  stared  up  in  as 
tonishment. 

"Madame?" 

The  great  lady's  ringed  fingers  spread  out,  pale 
and  taut  at  her  sides.  The  jewels  of  the  rings 


130  THE  SCARECROW 

showed  in  dark,  glistening  stains  against  the  white 
of  her  skin. 

"What  you've  just  told  me — all  of  it.  I  don't  sec 
how  you  know — how  you  can  know.  It's  true.  I 
can't  understand  how  it  can  be  true.  But  it  is. 
Every  word  of  it." 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  fingered  her  pen 
cil  a  bit  wearily. 

"But — of  course,  Madame." 

"I  came  here;"  the  great  lady  spoke  hurriedly. 
"I  don't  know  why  I  came.  Only  I  didn't  think: 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible.  I  couldn't  tell 
you  now  why  I  came." 

"There  are  many  who  come — these  days." 

"These  days?" 

"People  would  know  more  than  they  know  of 
things  they  never  thought  of  before,  Madame — 
these  days.  They  would  follow  a  bit  further  after 
the  lives  that  have  been  broken  off  so  suddenly. 
They  are  impatient  because  they  cannot  see  where 
they  have  never  before  looked  and  so  they  come  to 
me  because  I  have  sat,  staring  into  those  places. 
They  will  see — all  of  them — soon.  They  are  going 
on.  further,  because  they  must  know.  These  days 
they  must — know!" 

The  great  lady  stood  quite  still. 

"You  have  a  wonderful  gift — wonderful." 

"It  is  not  mine,  Madame." 

The  great  lady's  eyes  went  about  the  room. 

"I'll  be  going,"  she  said.    "It's  quite  late." 

Her  eyes  took  in  the  cheap  poverty  of  the  mended 


THE  FAITH  131 

carpet  and  the  paint-scratched  walls  and  the  dingy- 
threaded,  plush-covered  chairs. 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  got  to  her  feet. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking."  Her  voice  was 
low.  "If  I  can  do  this  for  others,  you  think,  why 
should  I  not  be  able  to  do  everything  for  myself? 
If  I  can  tell  to  others,  what  may  I  not  tell  to  my 
self?  If  I  can  give  help  to  others,  why  can  I  not 
give  help  to  myself?" 

The  silk  of  the  great  lady's  dress  gave  out  a  faint 
rustle  as  she  took  a  step  back. 

"No — "    She  murmured  uncertainly. 

"It  is  not  'No.'  '  The  woman's  voice  trembled. 
"It  is  'Yes.'  It  is  what  was  going  through  your 
head — going  around  and  around  and  fearing  to  be 
asked.  But  I  will  answer  you.  I  will  say  that  the 
power  is  not  mine.  It  is  the  power  that  is  given  to 
me.  It  is  not  for  myself.  I  do  not  want  it  for  my 
self.  I  shall  never  touch  it  for  myself,  because  it  is 
meant  for  others.  To  help  others  and  that  is  all." 

"D'you  mean  you  can't  see  things  for  yourself?" 

The  great  lady  was  curious. 

"But  of  course  I  can  see.  It  is  that  which,  some 
times — "  The  woman  with  the  white  hair  broke  off 
abruptly.  "Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  see  and  then 
to  be  able  to  do  nothing — nothing?  Not — one — 
thing—!" 

"How  can  you?" 

"I  can,  Madame,  because  that  is  what  I  am  here 
for.  It  is  by  being  nothing  myself  that  this  thing 
comes  through  me  so  that  I  can  feel  what  other  peo- 


132  THE  SCARECROW 

pie  are;  what  they  are  going  to  be.  If  I  thought 
only  of  me,  I  would  be  so  full  of  myself  1  could  not 
think  of  anything  else.  It  is  from  thinking  a  little 
bit  beyond  that  the  power  first  came.  And  now 
that  I  keep  on  thinking  away  from  the  nearest  layer 
of  thought,  it  works  through  me.  And  I  can  help. 
It  is  the  wish  of  my  life  to  help.  It  is  what  I  am 
here  for.  Placed  in  the  field.  They  told  it  to  me — 
the  voices.  Put  in  the  field, — by  them." 

The  great  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

The  woman  with  the  white  hair  pulled  herself 
up  very  suddenly.  There  was  a  quick,  convulsive 
movement  of  her  hands  and  for  a  short  second  her 
eyes  closed.  She  went  to  the  table  and  caught  the 
money  between  her  fingers  and  dragged  it  across  the 
red  cover  to  her. 

"I  thank  Madame." 

The  great  lady  walked  slowly  to  the  door. 

"Good-by.     Perhaps  some  day  I'll  be  back." 

"Perhaps — Madame.    Good-by." 

The  great  lady  went  out  of  the  room  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her.  The  sound  of  her  high-heeled 
footsteps  tapped  in  sharp  staccato  down  the  uncar- 
peted  stairs,  and  died  away  into  the  stillness.  The 
long-drawn  creak  of  rusty  hinges  and  then  the  muf 
fled  thud  of  the  front  door  swinging  to.  In  the 
street  the  soft  diminishing  whirr  of  a  motor  grew 
fainter  and  was  gone. 

Silence. 

The  woman  sank  into  a  chair  and  buried  her  face 
between  her  two  shaking  hands. 


THE  FAITH  133 

Shadows  crept  up  against  the  uncurtained  win 
dow  and  pressed,  quivering,  against  the  pane. 
Shadows  came  into  the  room  and  stretched  them 
selves  along  the  floor.  Shadows  reached  up  across 
the  wall  and  over  the  chairs  and  the  table.  Shadows 
spread  in  a  gray,  moving  mass  over  the  still  figure 
of  the  woman. 

A  young  girl  came  quickly  and  silently  through 
the  curtain  that  partitioned  the  room  off  from  the 
kitchen. 

"Mamas—" 

The  woman  did  not  move. 

"I  had  not  thought,  Maman,  that  you  were 
alone." 

The  woman  slowly  drew  her  face  from  out  be 
tween  her  hands.  She  looked  up  uncertainly,  her 
eyes  only  half  open. 

"Leave  me,  Angele." 

"But,  Maman,  supper  is  ready." 

"Let  it  wait,  Angele." 

The  girl  came  over  to  the  table  and  put  her  hand 
on  the  woman's  shoulder. 

"Was  she  then  horrid,  Maman?" 

The  woman  sighed  softly. 

"It  is  not  that,  Angele.  She  was  like  the  others. 
They  come  because  they  are  curious.  Something, 
perhaps,  brings  them  here,  but  they  do  not  know 
that.  They  are  only  curious.  They  do  not  believe. 
I  tell  them  the  truth.  They  are  shocked  for  a  little 
moment.  They  do  not  believe,  Angele." 

"Pauvre  petite  Maman,  you  are  tired." 


134  THE  SCARECROW 

"Non,  non,  Angele." 

"Will  you  have  Jean  see  you  tired,  Maman?" 

The  woman  stared  up  into  the  girl's  small,  white 
face  that  was  dimmed  with  shifting  shadows.  The 
woman's  heavily  lidded  eyes  met  the  girl's  wide, 
dark  eyes. 

"Jean—" 

"He  will  be  home  to  eat,  Maman.  Soon,  now,  he 
will  be  home." 

The  woman  passed  her  hands  again  and  again 
over  her  forehead  and  then  she  held  them  with  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  pressed  tight  to  her  temples. 

"He  is  such  a  child,  Angele." 

"Shall  we  have  supper  now?" 

"Angele—" 

"I  will  bring  a  light  in  here,  Maman,  and  then 
when  Jean  is  back  we  will  go  in  to  supper." 

"He — is — such — a — child, — Angele." 

"And  never  on  time,  Maman!" 

The  woman  caught  the  girl's  fingers  between  her 
own. 

"Answer  me,  Angele.     Answer  me!" 

The  girl  looked  down  in  surprise. 

"But  what,  Maman?" 

The  woman's  breath  came  quickly. 

"He  is  a  child.  Say  that  he  is  a  baby.  He  is  all 
that  I  have.  You  and  he  are  all — everything!  Say, 
Angele,  that  he  is  a  child !  Only  yesterday,  you  re 
member, — the  long  curls?  The  velvet  suit?  Surely 
it  was  yesterday.  Say,  Angele,  that  he — i$ — still — a 
— little — one." 


THE  FAITH  135 

The  girl  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  The 
shadows  lay  like  long,  dark  fingers  on  the  white  of 
her  throat. 

"Of  course.  He  is  young — too  young  even  now 
when  they  take  the  young.  You  have  no  need  to 
worry,  Maman.  Maman — what  is  it?" 

She  had  seen  the  sudden,  far-away  look  in  the 
woman's  eyes. 

She  had  seen  her  head  stretch  forward,  the  chin 
pointing,  the  mouth  a  little  open. 

"Maman— " 

The  woman's  hand  reached  out  in  a  gesture  com 
manding  silence. 

uThe  voices,"  the  woman  whispered.  "They 
have  been  after  me  the  whole  day.  The  voices. 
They — keep — coming — and — coming — to — me —  I 
have  not  been  able  to  think — for  the  voices — " 

"Maman—" 

uYou  say  'yes.'  You  are  coming — nearer — nearer. 
No — I  cannot  see.  But  hear — Mais,  it  is  good 
now!  You  speak  distinctly.  Of  course  I  thank  you 
for  speaking  so  beautifully.  You — say — you — want 


— want — " 


"Petite  Maman,  you  will  make  yourself  ill  with 
those  old  horoscopes  and  these  voices.  Petite 
Maman,  have  you  not  done  enough  for  one  day?" 

The  woman  paid  no  attention  to  her.  She  did  not 
seem  to  hear  the  girl.  Her  face  was  pale;  there 
were  faint,  bluish  smudges  about  her  mouth  and 
nostrils. 

"You  want — I  cannot — cannot  understand  what 


136  THE  SCARECROW 

you  want.  I'm  trying  to  understand.  I'm  trying 
hard!  If  you  will  tell  it  to  me  again.  And — slowly. 
With  patience.  It  is  better  now.  So  that  is  it? 
More  slowly, — if  you  can.  Of  course.  Is  it  that  you 
wish  to  know?  Of — course — I — shall — give — you 
— what — you — want.  I  always  give  you  what — you 
want.  I  do  my  best  for  that.  You — want — " 

The  woman's  eyes  were  closed.  She  was  breath 
ing  deeply.  Her  whole  figure  was  tense.  The  girl 
stood  beside  her,  a  puzzled,  half  incredulous  look 
coming  into  her  face. 

"I — should — look.  It  does  no — good — to — look. 
I  can  never  see — Beyond  the  wood — I  should  look 
beyond. — What  wood?  Now?  Is  it  perhaps  that 
— you — mean — gate?  Swings  to  and  fro?  Now — 
you — want — ;  this — moment — " 

The  door  was  flung  wide  open. 

At  the  noise  the  woman  slowly  opened  her  eyes, 
staring  blindly  before  her. 

"You — want — "    She  murmured. 

A  boy  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  was  slight  and 
young.  His  face  was  small  and  rather  like  the  girl's 
face,  and  his  dark  eyes  were  set  far  apart  like  her 
eyes.  Through  the  gray  of  the  massing  shadows 
gleamed  the  brass  buttons  of  his  uniform. 

The  girl  sprang  forward. 

"Jean— !" 

"Martian."  The  boy  came  a  step  into  the  room. 
"See,  Maman!" 

"Hush,  Jean."     The  girl  turned  to  gaze  at  the 


THE  FAITH  137 

woman  sitting  there  with  that  stony,  frozen  stare, 
staying  in  her  eyes. 

"Maman,  they  have  taken  me  at  last!" 

"Oh,"  for  a  second  the  girl  forgot  the  woman. 
"But  I  am  proud  of  you!" 

"Maman,  I  wear  the  uniform.  They  will  let  me 
go  now.  I  knew  they  would  take  me.  Sooner  or 
later;  I  knew  they  would  have  to!  Aren't  you 
glad?" 

The  girl  remembered  and  interrupted  him. 

"Be  still,  Jean!" 

The  boy  stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  his 
eyes  straining  through  the  gloom. 

"Maman,"  he  whispered. 

The  woman's  voice  came  trailing  softly  to  them. 

'They— want— " 

"Maman;"  the  girl  threw  her  arm  protectingly 
over  the  woman's  shoulders.  "Jean  is  here.  See, 
petite  Maman;  it  is  Jean.  Your  Jean." 

The  woman  repeated  the  words  in  that  gentle, 
plaintive  singsong. 

"They  want — "  and  then  she  got  to  her  feet. 
"Jean! — "  Her  voice  rose  shrilly  crescendo.  "It 
was  that!  My — Jean — " 

"Maman;"  the  boy  came  and  stood  beside  her. 
"You  would  not  have  me  stay  behind  when  they 
need  me?  You  will  be  glad  to  have  me  go.  Come, 
Maman,  you  must  say  that  you  are  glad!" 

"My  little  one—" 

"Say,  Maman,  that  you  are  glad." 

"So  young,  Jean." 


138  THE  SCARECROW 

"But  old  enough  to  fight  when  they  need  me.  Old 
enough  to  fight  for  France !" 

"My  baby—" 

"You  will  not  grieve,  Maman." 

She  reached  up  and  caught  his  face  between  her 
two  hands  and  drew  it  down  and  kissed  him  on  the 
mouth. 

"Ah,  Jean!" 

"And  say,  how  do  I  look?"  He  turned  around 
and  around  in  front  of  them.  "But,  Angele,  fetch 
the  lamp  quickly.  You  cannot  see  in  this  dark.  You 
cannot  see  me." 

The  girl  laughed  a  bit  uncertainly,  and  then  she 
went  quickly,  rushing  into  the  next  room. 

The  woman  gripped  hold  of  the  boy's  hand.  His 
fingers  grasped  hers. 

"Petite  Maman." 

"Mon  Jean — just — a — moment — still — so." 

They  stood  there  silent  and  very  close  to  each 
other,  in  the  room  crowded  with  moving,  splotching 
shadows.  The  girl  came  back  through  the  curtain, 
a  lighted  lamp  between  her  two  hands.  The  flicker 
of  it  spread  broadly  into  her  eager,  anxious  face. 
The  glow  of  it  trickled  before  her  and  widened 
through  the  room.  The  shadows  stuck  to  the  walls 
in  the  corners  and  rocked  up  against  the  ceiling,  black 
among  the  uneven  streaks  of  yellow  light. 

"Now,  Angele.  Now,  Maman.  Put  it  there  on 
the  table,  Angele.  No,  hold  it  higher.  Like  that. 
Keep  your  hands  steady,  Angele,  or  how  can  Maman 
see?  Such  a  miserable  lamp !  Does  not  my  uniform 


THE  FAITH  139 

look  magnificent?  I  am  the  real  poilu,  hein? 
Something  to  be  proud  of,  Maman?" 

uThe  real  poilu?"  The  girl  questioned  softly. 
"The  grandchild  of  the  real  poilu,  maybe." 

"She  mocks  me,  Maman." 

"Be  quiet,  Angele." 

"I  do  not  mock,  Maman;  but  I  will  not  have  his 
head  turned.  The  poor  little  cabbage!" 

"See,  Maman.  She  will  not  stop.  Tell  her  that 
I  fight  for  France." 

For  a  moment  the  woman  hesitated.  They  could 
hear  the  deep  breath  she  took. 

"For  France.     And  for  something  else,  my  little 


son." 


With  great  care  the  girl  placed  the  lamp  on  the 
table. 

"Something  else,  Maman?" 

"The  thing  for  which  France  stands — ;  and  con 
quers." 

He  seized  at  her  last  word. 

"Conquers?  Of  course  she  conquers.  And  I  will 
help!  I  will  kill  the  Boches.  Right  and  left.  I 
shall  fight  until  France  will  win !" 

A  strange  light  had  filtered  into  the  woman's 
heavily  lidded  eyes. 

"Bravo!"  The  girl  clapped  her  hands  together. 
"And  shall  we  have  our  supper  now,  petite  Maman, 
and  my  little  rabbit?" 

"Maman — when  I  have  this  uniform — " 

"Go,  children.     In  a  moment  I  will  be  with  you." 


140  THE  SCARECROW 

"Come,  my  cauliflower.    Maman  would  be  alone." 

"Marxian— " 

"Jean — I  do  not  mean  to  tease.  Let  us  go  in  to 
supper.  If  I  do  not  try  to  be  pleasant  I  shall  weep. 
You  would  not  have  me  weep,  brother  Jean?  I 
would  wet  the  pretty  shoulder  of  your  uniform  with 
my  tears.  That  would  be  a  tragedy.  So  come  along 
to  supper,  my  rascal." 

Hand  in  hand  the  boy  and  the  girl  went  through 
the  loose-hung,  plush  curtain  into  the  kitchen. 

The  woman  stood  rigid  beside  the  table. 

"Help  me,"  she  whispered  beneath  her  breath. 
"You—" 

She  stumbled  to  her  knees.  Her  head  was  pressed 
against  the  edge  of  the  table.  Her  hands  fumbled 
over  the  top  of  it,  the  fingers  widespread  and  catch 
ing;  clutching  at  whatever  they  touched. 

From  the  kitchen  came  the  sound  of  low  voices.  A 
knife  rattled  clatteringly  against  a  plate.  Once  the 
girl  laughed  and  her  laughter  snapped  off  in  a  half- 
smothered  sob. 

The  woman  moaned  a  little. 

"Just  to  watch  over  him.  That's  all  I  ask. — You 
— across  there,  just — to — protect — him — " 

Her  hands  went  to  her  throat,  the  fingers  tighten 
ing. 

"A  sign,"  she  implored.  "Dieu — that — you — 
hear — me!" 

Her  eyes  stared  about  the  room,  peering  frantic 
ally  from  under  their  heavy  lids. 


THE  FAITH  141 

"Will  you  not  help  me?"  She  pleaded.  "Dieu! 
mon  Dieu, — will  you  not — help — me — ?" 

Her  kneeling  figure  swayed  a  bit. 

"You  will  not  hear/'  she  whimpered.  "You  will 
— not — hear — " 

For  a  moment  longer  she  waited  in  the  tense 
silence.  And  then  she  rose  stiffly  to  her  feet.  Her 
eyes  riveted  themselves  upon  a  little  pool  of  yellow 
light  that  lay  in  the  center  of  the  table  under  the 
lamp.  The  palms  of  her  hands  struck  noiselessly  to 
gether. 

Very  slowly,  she  went  through  the  curtain  and 
into  the  kitchen. 

It  was  a  scrupulously  clean  room.  A  stove  stood 
in  one  corner.  Against  the  wall  hung  a  row  of  pots 
and  pans  that  caught  the  light  from  the  swinging 
lamp  in  brilliant,  burnished  patches. 

Angele  and  Jean  sat  near  to  each  other  at  the 
center  table.  Their  heads  were  close.  Their  cau 
tious  whispering  stopped  abruptly  as  she  came  to 
ward  them. 

The  woman  sat  down  with  the  girl  on  one  side  of 
her  and  the  boy  on  the  other.  She  was  very  silent. 
There  was  only  one  thing  she  could  have  said.  She 
did  not  want  to  say  it. 

Mechanically  she  tried  to  eat.  She  watched  her 
hands  moving  upward  from  her  plate  with  a  sort  of 
dazed  interest.  It  was  only  when  she  tried  to  swal 
low  that  she  realized  how  each  mouthful  of  food 
choked  her. 

The  one  question  came  to  her  lips  again  and  again. 


i42  THE  SCARECROW 

At  last  she  asked  it. 

"When  do  you  go — mon  Jean?" 

The  boy  gave  a  quick  glance  at  his  sister  and  his 
eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the  table  before  him  and 
stayed  there.  She  knew  then  what  they  had  been 
speaking  of  when  she  came  into  the  room. 

4'What  difference  does  it  make,  petite  Maman, 
when  I  go?" 

"But  when,  my  son?" 

"See,  Angele,  she  is  anxious  to  be  rid  of  me !  She 
cannot  wait  until  I  go.  She  insists  upon  knowing 
even  before  we  have  finished  this  supper  of  ours." 

"Maman;" — the  girl  spoke  hurriedly.  "Let  us 
talk  of  that  later." 

"When?"  She  insisted. 

"But,  Maman,  you  have  not  touched  your  food. 
Was  it  not  good?  And  I  thought  you  would  so  like 
the  p'tit  marmite." 

"It  is  excellent,  Angele." 

"Then  eat,  Maman." 

"It  is  that  I  am  not  hungry,  Angele." 

"So,  the  p'tit  marmite  is  not  good,  petite  Maman. 
If  it  were  excellent,  even  though  you  have  no  hun 
ger,  you  would  eat  and  eat  until  there  was  not  one 
little  bit  left." 

The  woman  took  another  spoonful. 

"When?"     She  repeated. 

The  boy's  dark  eyes  lifted  and  looked  into  hers. 

"To-night, — Maman." 

Her  figure  straightened  itself  with  a  quick  jerk. 

"To-night?" 


THE  FAITH  143 

"And  what  does  it  matter,  petite  Maman,  when  I 
go?  Surely  to-night  is  as  nice  a  time  as  any." 

"As  nice  a  time  as  any;"  she  echoed  his  words. 

The  three  of  them  sat  there  silently. 

The  girl  was  the  first  to  move. 

"Ah,  but  it  is  hot  in  here."  She  pushed  her  chair 
back  from  the  table.  "It  is  uncomfortable!" 

The  boy  and  the  woman  got  to  their  feet. 

"I'll  pack,  Maman.  Not  much,  you  know.  Just 
my  shaving  things  and  soap,  and  some  underwear. 
Angele  will  help  me.  I  won't  be  long." 

He  went  out  of  the  kitchen  door  and  down  the  nar 
row  passage  way  to  his  room.  The  girl  hesitated 
for  a  moment.  Without  a  word  she  hurried  after 
him. 

The  woman  crossed  slowly  into  the  next  room. 
For  a  second  she  stood  beside  the  table,  and  then  she 
walked  over  to  the  window. 

Outside  the  street  was  dark.  No  light  trickled 
through  the  blinds  of  the  house  opposite.  No  light 
reached  its  brilliant  electric  flare  into  the  sky.  No 
light  from  the  tall  lamp-post  specked  through  the 
gloom.  In  the  dim  shadow  of  the  silent  street  she 
could  see  the  vague  forms  of  people  going  to  and 
fro.  Blurred  figures  moving  in  the  darkness  with 
the  echo  of  their  footsteps  trailing  sharply  behind 
them. 

She  stood  quite  still.  Once  her  hands  crept  up  to 
her  mouth,  the  backs  of  them  pressing  against  her 
teeth. 

"Maman." 


144  THE  SCARECROW 

She  wheeled  about  at  the  sound  of  Jean's  voice. 

He  was  standing  just  within  the  doorway,  the  girl 
at  his  side.  The  woman  stood  there  staring.  The 
girl  crossed  the  room  quickly  and  put  her  arm  about 
the  woman's  waist,  drawing  her  close. 

"Petite  Maman— " 

"You — go — now — Jean  ?" 

She  said  the  words  carefully  and  precisely  with  a 
tremendous  effort  for  control. 

"But,  yes,  Maman!" 

She  leaned  a  little  against  the  girl. 

"Mon  Jean,  you  will  have  courage — ;  great — 
courage — my  little  one,  you  will  be  protected.  You 
— will — be — protected!"  She  had  said  that  in  spite 
of  herself. 

He  came  to  her  then  and  flung  his  arms  about 
her  and  kissed  her  on  either  cheek,  and  held  her 
tightly  to  him. 

"Good-by,  petite  Maman." 

"Good — "    She  could  not  say  it 

"Good-by,  Angele." 

"My  little  rabbit — I  wish  you  luck.  My  cabbage 
— au  revoir — ;"  and  her  lips  brushed  across  his 
mouth. 

For  a  second  he  did  not  move.  Then  he  went 
across  the  room  and  out  through  the  door. 

He  was  gone. 

The  woman's  eyes  went  to  the  window.  The 
silent,  darkened  street.  The  people  there  below  her. 
The  somber,  black  lack  of  light. 

"Maman;"  the  girl  whispered. 


THE  FAITH  145 

"They  will  watch  over  him,"  the  woman  muttered. 
"They  must  watch — out — there.  They  do  come 
back  into  the  world  again  to  protect.  They  cannot — 
cannot  leave  them  in  all  that  horror — alone." 

"See,  Maman."  The  girl's  quivering  face  was 
against  the  window-pane.  "Maman,  Jean  waves 
to  you!" 

Her  eyes  followed  the  pointing  of  the  girl's  finger. 

"They — must — be — here — ,"  she  murmured. 

"Maman, — wave  to  Jean!" 

Her  gaze  rested  on  the  dim,  undefined  figure  of 
the  boy  standing  in  the  street  with  his  hat  in  the 
hand  that  was  reached  toward  them  above  his  head. 
Mechanically  she  waved  back. 

The  woman  and  the  girl  stood  close. 

"Oh — petite  maman;"  she  whispered  piteously. 

The  woman's  eyes  dilated. 

There,  following  after  Jean;  going  through  the 
shadow-saturated  street;  moving  unheeded  among 
the  vague  figures  of  the  people  going  to  and  fro. 
Something  was  there.  Some  scant  movement  like 
a  current  too  quiet  to  see.  A  shadow  in  the  shadows 
that  her  sight  could  not  hold  to.  In  the  dark, 
gloom-soaked  street,  staying  close  to  her  Jean,  she 
could  feel  something.  Some  one  was  there. 

Her  eyes  strained  with  desperate  intentness.  Her 
hands  went  up  slowly  across  her  heart. 

The  words  that  came  to  her  lips  were  whispered: 

"Dieu!  Give  me  faith; — faith — not — to — disbe 
lieve—" 


YELLOW 


YELLOW 

HE  walked  along  the  pavement  with  the  long, 
swinging  stride  he  had  so  successfully  aped 
from  the  men  about  him.  It  had  been  one  of  the 
first  things  upon  which  he  had  dwelt  with  the  greatest 
patience;  one  of  the  first  upon  which  he  had  centered 
his  stolid  concentration.  He  had  carried  his  per 
sistency  to  such  a  degree  that  he  had  even  been 
known  to  follow  other  men  about  measuring  their 
step  to  a  nicety  with  those  long,  narrow  eyes  of  his, 
that  seemed  to  see  nothing,  and  yet  penetrated  into 
the  very  soul  of  everything. 

His  classmates  at  the  big  college  had  at  the  be 
ginning  laughed  at  him;  scoffing  readily  because  of 
the  dogged  manner  in  which  he  had  persevered  at 
his  desire  to  become  thoroughly  American.  Now 
after  all  his  laborious  painstaking,  now  that  he  had 
carefully  studied  all  their  ways  of  talking,  all  their 
distinctive  mannerisms;  now  that  he  had  gone  even 
beyond  that  with  true  Oriental  perception,  reaching 
out  with  the  cunning  tentacles  of  his  brain  into  the 
minds  of  those  about  him,  he  knew  they  had  begun 
to  treat  him  with  the  comradeship,  the  unthinking 
fellow-feeling  which  they  accorded  each  other. 

He  thoroughly  realized  that  had  they  paused  to 
consider,  had  they  in  any  way  been  made  to  feel  that 

M9 


150  THE  SCARECROW 

he,  a  Chinaman,  had  consciously  made  up  his  mind 
to  become  one  of  them,  consistently  mimicking  them 
day  after  day,  that  they  would  have  resented  him. 
He  knew  that  they  could  not  have  helped  but  think 
it  all  hypocrisy.  And  yet  he  actually  felt  that  it  was 
the  one  big  thing  of  his  life;  that  desire  of  his  to 
cast  aside  the  benightment  of  dying  China,  for  what 
he  considered  the  enlightment  and  virility  of  Amer 
ica. 

To  be  sure  he  recognized  there  was  still  a  great 
number  of  the  men  who  distrusted  him  because  of 
his  yellow  face.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  with  the 
slow  deliberation  that  always  characterized  his  un 
swerving  determination  to  win  every  one  of  them  be 
fore  the  end  of  his  last  year.  He  would  show  them 
one  and  all  that  he  was  as  good  as  they  were;  that 
the  traditions  of  the  Chinaman  which  they  so  looked 
down  upon,  upon  which  he  himself  looked  down 
upon,  were  not  his  traditions. 

As  he  walked  along  he  thought  of  these  things; 
thought  of  them  carefully  and  concisely  in  English. 
His  narrow  eyes  became  a  trifle  more  narrow,  and  a 
smile  that  held  something  of  triumph  in  it  came  and 
played  about  his  flat,  mobile  mouth. 

It  had  been  raining  hard.  The  wet  streets 
stretched  in  dark,  reflecting  coils  under  the  corner 
lamps.  Overhead  a  black  sky  lowered  threateningly; 
pressing  down  upon  the  crouching,  gray  masses  of 
the  close-built  houses  in  sullen  menace.  Now  and 
again  a  swift  moving  train  flung  itself  in  thundering 


YELLOW  151 

derision  across  the  elevated  tracks;  a  long  brightly 
lit  line  streaking  through  the  encircling  gloom. 

He  could  feel  the  mysterious  throb  of  life  all 
about  him.  The  unfathomed  lure  of  the  night,  of 
the  few  people  that  at  so  late  an  hour  crept  past  him, 
looming  for  a  second  in  sudden  distinctness  at  his 
side,  then  fading  phantom-like  into  the  deep  engulf 
ing  shadows  of  the  dim  street. 

He  was  at  a  complete  loss  how  to  express  to  him 
self  the  feeling  of  dread;  a  subtle  feeling  that  some 
how  refused  to  be  translated  into  the  carefully  ac 
quired  English  of  which  he  was  so  proud. 

For  a  moment  he  doubted  himself.  Doubted  that, 
were  he  so  thoroughly  American,  he  could  feel  the 
Oriental's  subconscious  recognition  of  the  purpose 
ful,  sinister  intent  in  the  huddled  mass  of  darkened 
shop  windows  with  their  rain-dripping  signs;  in  the 
shining  reptile  scales  of  the  asphalt  underfoot;  in  the 
pulsing  intensity  of  the  hot,  torpid  July  atmosphere. 

A  street  lamp  flickered  its  uncertain  light  slug 
gishly  over  the  carefully  groomed  figure  and  across 
the  placid  breath  of  the  yellow  face. 

He  paused  a  second  as  he  saw  a  form  come  lurch 
ing  unsteadily  out  of  the  gloom  ahead  of  him.  It 
came  nearer  and  he  could  see  that  what  had  at  first 
appeared  to  be  a  dark,  undefinable  mass,  pushed  here 
and  there  by  unseen  hands,  was  in  reality  a  man 
swaying  drunkenly  out  of  the  shadows. 

He  watched  the  man  curiously,  with  a  little  of 
that  contemptuous  feeling  an  Oriental  always  holds 
for  any  expression  of  excess.  As  the  man  stood  be- 


1 52  THE  SCARECROW 

fore  him  in  the  darkness,  as  he  stumbled  and  seemed 
about  to  fall,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  caught  him 
by  the  elbow. 

"Thank  'e;"  the  drunken  eyes  blinked  blearily  up 
into  his  stolid  impassive  face.  "It's  fine  to  be  saved 
on  a  stormy  night  like  this.  It  is — " 

"Don't  mention  it." 

"It's  a  powerful  dark  night; — it  is." 

"Les.    That  is  so." 

"And  it's  a  damn  long  way  home.     Ain't  it?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"By  the  saints !  And  no  more  do  I.  Ain't  you  got 
a  dime  on  you,  mister?  You  could  be  giving  it  to 
me  for  car  fare — ;  couldn't  you  now,  mister?" 

"Velee  glad  to  let  you  have  it." 

He  fished  in  his  pocket.  He  drew  out  the  coin 
and  placed  it  in  the  man's  outstretched  hand.  He 
watched  the  dirty  fingers  close  eagerly  over  it.  Sud 
denly  the  bloodshot  eyes  wavered  suspiciously 
across  his  face.  He  saw  the  red  flushed  features 
twitch  convulsively. 

"Holy  Mother!"  The  drunkard  muttered  thickly. 
"It's  a  heathen." 

The  dime  slipped  from  between  the  inert  fingers. 
It  tinkled  down  onto  the  pavement,  rolling  with  a 
little  splash  into  a  pool  of  water  that  lay  a  deep  stain 
in  the  crevice  of  the  broken  asphalt. 

For  a  moment  he  wondered  placidly  at  the  injus 
tice  of  it;  wondered  that  he  should  be  made  to  feel 
the  disgust  of  so  revolting  a  thing  as  this  drunkard. 

He  saw  that  the  man  had  crossed  himself  with  sud- 


YELLOW  153 

den  fervor;  he  saw  him  shuffle  uncertainly  this  way 
and  that,  as  though  the  feet  refused  to  carry  the 
huge,  bloated  body.  He  stood  watching  the  reeling 
figure  until  its  dark  outline  was  absorbed  into  the  in- 
tenser  darkness  of  a  side  street.  The  expression  on 
his  face  never  changing,  he  walked  on. 

He  knew  he  had  no  right  to  be  out  at  that  time  of 
the  night;  he  knew  he  ought  to  be  sitting  at  his  desk 
in  his  comfortable  little  room,  working  out  the 
studies  which  he  had  set  himself.  And  yet  he  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  turn  back. 

Something  drew  him  on  into  the  blackness  of  the 
night;  pulling  him  into  it  like  a  fated  thing. 

Now  and  then  he  found  that  the  stride  he  had  ac 
quired  from  such  grinding  observation  tired  him. 
Not  for  worlds  would  he  have  shortened  his  step  to 
that  padding,  sinuous  motion  so  distinctly  Chinese. 

He  had  grown  to  hate  all  things  Chinese.  In  the 
short  time  in  which  he  had  been  in  New  York  he 
had  discarded  with  the  utmost  patience  the  traits 
which  are  so  persistently  associated  with  the  China 
man.  To  be  thought  American;  to  have  the  free 
dom,  the  quick  appreciation  of  life  that  belongs  to 
the  Occident,  that  hafl  been  the  goal  toward  which 
he  had  striven;  the  goal  he  prided  himself  he  had  al 
most  reached. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

In  the  dark  he  felt  the  pressure  of  bony  fingers 
against  his  flesh. 

Looking  down  he  saw  that  a  woman  had  crept 


154  THE  SCARECROW 

up  from  behind  him;  that  she  had  put  out  her  hand 
in  an  effort  to  detain  him. 

It  was  in  the  center  of  a  block.  The  thick  black 
ness  that  hung  loosely,  an  opaque  veil  all  about  him, 
was  almost  impenetrable.  Yet  as  he  looked  at  her 
with  his  small,  piercing  eyes,  he  thought  he  saw  her 
lips  moving  in  crimsoned  stains  splashed  against 
the  whiteness  of  her  face. 

" What  is  it?"    He  asked. 

He  saw  her  raise  her  eyelids  at  his  question.  He 
found  himself  gazing  into  her  eyes;  eyes  that  were 
twin  balls  of  fire  left  to  burn  in  a  place  that  had 
been  devastated  by  flames. 

"It's  hot;— ain't  it?" 

He  stood  silent  for  a  moment  trying  to  realize 
that  the  woman  had  every  right  to  be  there ;  trying 
to  understand  with  an  even  greater  endeavor  that 
she  was  in  reality  a  flesh  and  blood  woman,  and  not 
some  mysteriously  incarnate  soul  crawling  to  his  side 
out  of  the  sinister  night. 

"Les ,— it's  velee  hot." 

Something  in  his  tone  caused  her  to  start;  caused 
her  to  look  around  her  as  though  she  were  afraid. 

"I  wouldn't  have  spoke,"  she  stammered.  "I 
wouldn't  have  spoke  only  it's  such  a  fierce  night." 
Then  as  he  did  not  answer  her  immediately,  her 
voice  rose  querulously.  "It's  a  fierce  night;  ain't  it, 
now?" 

That  was  the  word  for  which  he  had  so  vainly 
searched  throughout  the  vocabulary  of  his  carefully 
acquired  English.  The  word  the  woman  had  given 


YELLOW  155 

him,  that  expressed  the  sullen  menace  of  the  night 
about  him. 

"It  is — fie — "  He  made  an  effort  to  accomplish 
the  refractory  "r."  "It  is  fierce." 

The  hand  she  had  withdrawn  from  his  arm  was 
reached  out  again.  He  could  feel  her  fingers  scrape 
like  the  talons  of  a  frightened  bird  around  his  wrist. 

"You  get  it  too,  mister?" 

"Get  what?" 

"The  kind  of  feeling  that  makes  you  think  some 
thing  is  going  to  happen?"  She  drew  the  back  of  her 
free  hand  across  her  mouth.  "Ain't  it  making  you 
afraid?" 

Somehow  the  woman's  words  aroused  within  him 
a  dread  that  was  a  prophecy.  He  made  one  at 
tempt  at  holding  to  his  acquired  Americanism.  The 
Americanism  which  was  slowly  receding  before  the 
stifled  waves  of  Oriental  foreboding,  like  a  weak, 
protesting  thing  that  fears  a  hidden  strength.  For 
he  knew  the  foreboding  was  fate;  and  he  knew  toQ 
that  when  fulfilled,  it  would  be  met  with  all  the 
stoicism  of  a  Chinaman. 

"You  feel  aflaid?" 

The  fingers  about  his  wrist  clattered  bonily  to 
gether;  then  clinched  themselves  anew. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered.  "I  guess  that's  it.  I  guess 
I'm  afraid." 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  the  lateness  of  the 
hour. 

"I'm  velee  solee,"  he  said.  "I'm  solee,  but  I 
must  be  going." 


156  THE  SCARECROW 

"You  can't  leave  me;"  she  stuttered  behind  her 
shut  teeth.  "You  ain't  got  the  heart  to  leave  me  all 
alone  on  a  night  like  this." 

"You  can  go  to  your  home ;"  and  he  thought  of  the 
drunkard  who  had  gone  to  his  home.  Surely  the 
night  sheltered  strange  creatures.  "Les,  you  better 
go  on  to  your  home." 

She  laughed. 

He  had  never  thought  of  one  of  his  little  Chinese 
gods  with  their  crooked  faces  laughing;  but  as  he 
heard  her  he  knew  that  their  mirth  would  sound  like 
that.  Sound  as  though  all  the  gladness  had  been 
killed;  choked  out  of  it,  leaving  only  the  harsh  echoes 
that  mocked  and  mocked. 

"Gee,  mister — ;  I  ain't  got  no  place  to  go." 

"I'm  velee  solee." 

He  said  it  again,  not  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

Something  in  his  evident  sincerity  aroused  her  to 
protest. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  thinks  it  queer  for  me  to  be 
talking  this  way,"  she  said.  "I  know  you  thinks  it 
funny  for  me  to  say  I'm  afraid.  And  I  ain't,  ex 
cepting — "  she  added  hastily,  "on  a  night  like  this. 
It  kinder  makes  everything  alive;  everything  that's 
rotten  bad.  I  ain't  ashamed  of  the  things  I've  done. 
I  ain't  scared  of  the  dead  things.  It's  the  live  ones 
I'm  afraid  of — ;  the  dirty  live  things.  They  kinder 
come  at  you  in  the  dark."  For  an  instant  her  body 
trembled  against  his.  "Then  they  goes  past  you  all 
creepy-like.  Creeping  on  their  bellies — ;  sliding, — 
like — like — slime." 


YELLOW  157 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  he  in 
terrupted. 

"I  know,"  she  insisted.  "I  know!  Some  night 
like  this  I'll  be  doing  something  awful; — and  they'll 
be  there."  She  pointed  a  shaking  hand  towards  the 

shadows.    "They'll  be  there,  wriggling  to  me — quiet 
|>» 

"Imagination,"  he  said,  and  he  smiled.  In  the 
dark  she  could  not  have  seen  the  smile,  nor  could  she 
have  known  that  the  lightness  of  his  tone  covered  a 
deep,  malignant  dread.  "It  is  all  imagination!" 

"It  ain't!"  She  spoke  sullenFy.  "I  tell  you,  it's 
real.  It's  horrible  real!" 

Her  voice  was  frantic. 

"Maybe  it  is,"  he  conceded,  and  then,  as  she  made 
no  answer,  he  asked:  "You  like  to  walk  with  me  a 
little?" 

"Yes."  Her  head  drooped  as  though  she  were 
utterly  discouraged.  "It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  as 
sticking  it  out  here — alone." 

He  could  not  help  but  notice  that  she  hesitated  a 
bit  before  the  word  alone.  Undoubtedly  she  could 
not  get  the  thought  of  those  things — those  live  things 
she  so  feared,  out  of  her  head.  The  things  that 
waited  for  her  in  the  shadows. 

They  walked  along  the  wet  pavements  to 
gether. 

An  engine  shrieked  weirdly  above  them,  like  some 
thing  neither  bird  nor  beast;  like  something  inhu 
man. 


i5 8  THE  SCARECROW 

Under  a  street  lamp  she  glanced  up  at  him  cu 
riously. 

He  heard  her  gasp.  He  looked  down  at  her.  He 
saw  her  eyes  widen  in  terror;  he  saw  her  pale,  bare 
hands  creep  uncertain,  stumbling  to  her  neck,  as  if 
she  were  choking.  He  heard  her  voice  rattling  in 
her  throat. 

"What  is  it?"  He  asked.    "You  are  ill?" 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  He  could  feel 
her  shudder,  as  she  writhed  and  twisted  under  his 
touch. 

"Let  go  of  me."  Her  voice  was  hoarse.  "Let 
go  of  me,  I  say!" 

For  some  unaccountable  reason  his  fingers  closed 
all  the  more  tightly  on  her  shrinking  flesh. 

"Let  me  go; — you — damned — Chink!" 

She  muttered  the  words  under  her  breath. 

He  heard  her. 

He  thought  of  the  drunkard  and  he  thought  of 
her. 

Suddenly  he  felt  quite  furious;  stilly,  sinisterly 
furious. 

"I'm  'Melican." 

He  said  it  stolidly.  His  narrow,  black  eyes  were 
unwavering  on  her. 

She  began  to  cry. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  whimpered.  "I  ain't  done  noth 
ing  to  you.  I  couldn't  have  got  on  to  your  being — a 
—Chink." 

"What  diffelence  does  that  make?"     He  asked. 


YELLOW  159 

And  then  he  reiterated  with  careful  precision:  "I 
tell  you  I'm  a  'Melican." 

Her  words  came  to  him  in  a  gurgle  of  terror. 

"I  hate  you.  I  hate  all  of  your  yellow  faces — and 
them  eyes!  I  hate  them  horrid,  nasty — eyes!" 

He  bent  his  head  until  his  face  almost  touched 
hers.  His  strong,  angry  fingers  held  her  firmly  by 
either  arm. 

"It  is  not  pletty,  this  face?" 

She  struggled,  inane  with  fear.  She  fought,  trying 
to  free  herself,  to  tear  away  from  the  vise-like  grip 
of  those  awful  hands;  swaying  like  a  tortured, 
trapped  creature  against  his  strength.  She  could 
feel  the  intensity,  the  calm  scrutiny  of  his  long,  nar 
row  eyes  upon  her. 

Suddenly  something  in  his  brain  snapped. 

He  pushed  her  roughly  from  him. 

He  saw  her  fall  to  the  pavement;  he  saw  her 
head  strike  the  curb. 

He  stood  there  watching  her  as  she  lay,  outlined 
by  the  light  colored  material  of  her  dress  against 
the  wet  blackness  of  the  asphalt. 

"What  diffelence  does  it  make  if  I  am  a  China 
man?" 

He  asked  it  as  he  bent  over  her.  But  she  did  not 
answer.  The  question  went  out  into  the  heavy  still 
ness,  hanging  there  to  be  echoed  deafeningly  by  a 
thousand  silent  tongues. 

Something  in  the  sudden  quiet  of  the  way  she  lay 
filled  him  with  a  tranquil  joy.  He  knelt  beside  her, 
He  reached  his  hand  over  her  heart, 


160  THE  SCARECROW 

He  got  up  slowly,  deliberately. 

He  moved  silently  away,  going  with  that  padded, 
sinuous  motion,  so  distinctly  Chinese. 

With  cunning  stealth  he  went  back  the  way  he  had 
come,  treading  lightly;  cautiously  seeking  the  darkest 
shadows. 

He  had  gone  some  little  distance  when  he  heard 
the  regular  beat  of  hurrying  footsteps  following 
him. 

He  stood  stolidly,  still,  awaiting  whatever  might 
happen. 

Overhead  he  saw  a  cluster  of  heavy,  black  clouds 
sweeping  across  the  sky,  like  eager,  reaching  hands 
against  a  somber  background. 

It  had  begun  to  rain  again.  He  could  feel  the 
raindrops  trickling  gently  down  his  upturned  face. 

He  wondered,  as  the  footsteps  halted  beside  him, 
if  he  should  have  run.  His  mind,  working  rapidly, 
decided  that  any  other  man  would  have  gotten  away; 
any  other  man  but  not  a  Chinaman. 

A  heavy  hand  fell  across  his  shoulder. 

"I've  got  you,  my  boy!"  A  voice  shouted  in  his 
ear.  "I  seen  you  kneeling  there  beside  her.  You'll 
be  coming  along  with  me !" 

He  turned  to  face  the  voice. 

The  wind  that  heralded  the  coming  storm  rustled 
through  the  street,  carrying  with  it  a  litter  of  filthy 
castaway  newspapers.  Flurries  of  stinging  sand- 
sharp  dust  swirled  above  the  pavement.  A  low 
rumble  of  thunder  bellowed  overhead.  Then  the 
rain  came  down  in  sudden  lashing  fury. 


YELLOW  161 

He  had  to  raise  his  voice  to  make  himself  heard. 

"I'm  velee  glad,"  he  said. 

The  bull's  eye  was  flashed  into  his  placid,  narrow 
eyes. 

He  could  see  the  policeman's  face  behind  the  light; 
see  the  surprise  quivering  on  the  red  features. 

In  the  darkness  above  the  racket  of  the  storm, 
he  heard  the  man's  gasping  mutter: 

"Yellow— by  God!— Yellow  1" 


CHINA-CHING 


CHINA-CHING  * 

racket  was  terrific.    The  yelping,  the  shrill 
JL     prolonged  whines,   the   quick  incessant  bark 
ing;    and   running   in    growling  under-current,    the 
throaty,  infuriated  snarling. 

The  woman  stood  at  the  window  gazing  out  into 
the  gathering  twilight.  Before  her  eyes  stretched  the 
drab,  flat  fields;  here  and  there  a  shadowy  mass  of 
trees  reached  their  feathery  tips  that  were  etched  in 
darkly  against  the  graying  skies.  Directly  before 
her,  beyond  the  unkept  waste  that  might  at  one  time 
have  been  a  garden,  reared  the  high,  wire  walls  of 
the  kennels.  She  could  just  make  out  the  dim,  unde 
fined  forms  of  the  dogs  running  to  and  fro  within 
the  narrow,  confining  space. 

The  swift,  persistent  movement  of  them  fascinated 
her.  The  ghostly  shapes  of  them  pattering  sinuously 
and  silently  along  the  ground;  the  dull  scratching 
thud  of  the  claws  and  bodies  that  hurled  themselves 
again  and  again  into  the  strong  wire  netting.  The 
impossibility  of  their  escape  throttled  her.  Their 
futile  attempts  at  freedom  caused  a  powerful  nausea 
to  creep  over  her.  And  there  in  the  center  of  the 
run  she  could  distinguish,  chained  to  the  dog-house, 
— a  pale  blur  in  the  fading  light, — the  motionless 
yellow  mass  of  the  chow,  China-Ching. 

*  Published  originally  in  The  All  Story  Maya~inc. 

165 


1 66  THE  SCARECROW 

The  shrill,  prolonged  whines,  the  quick,  incessant 
barking: — 

"Oh,  my  Gawd;"  she  muttered  involuntarily. 
uOh,  my  Gawd!" 

The  man  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  room  pulled 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 

"What's  that  you  say?" 

She  stood  at  the  window,  her  eyes  fixed  steadfastly 
on  that  one  dumb  dog  among  all  those  yelping,  snarl 
ing  other  dogs. 

The  man  got  up  from  his  chair  and  came  and 
stood  beside  her.  Unconsciously  she  shrank  away 
from  his  nearness. 

"Ain't  you  used  to  that  by  now; — ain't  you?" 

She  turned  toward  him; — all  but  her  eyes.  Her 
eyes  were  still  riveted  out  there  upon  the  motionless 
chow  chained  in  the  center  of  the  run. 

"It  ain't  the  noise;  that, — that  don't  mean  so 
much,  James.  It  ain't  the  noise." 

"Then  what's  the   matter, — huh?" 

She  pointed  a  trembling  forefinger  at  that  yellow 
mass  tied  to  the  dog-house. 

"Him,"  she  whispered.  "He  don't  make  no 
racket,  James." 

The  man  peered  over  her  shoulder. 

"The  chow?" 

"Yes;"  her  voice  was  still.  "China-Ching.  He 
don't  make  no  racket,  James." 

"I'd  like  to  hear  him,"  the  man  blustered.  "I'd 
just  like  to  hear  one  peep  out  of  him; — that's  all." 

She  saw  his  coarse,  hairy  hand  go  to  his  hip  pocket. 


CHINA-CHING  167 

She  smiled  bitterly.  She  knew  the  confidence  he 
felt  when  he  touched  the  mother-of-pearl  handle  of 
his  pistol. 

"You  don't  need  that  on  him,"  she  said.  "He  just 
sits  there  and  don't  never  move.  He  don't  hardly 
eat  when  you  feeds  him.  He  don't  seem  to  have  no 
heart  left  for  nothing.  He  ain't  like  the  terrier  what 
had  the  distemper; — he  ain't  like  the  greyhound 
what  had  the  hydrophobia, — so  awful  bad." 

"What  d'you  mean?"  The  man  muttered  angrily. 
"Ain't  they  had  the  hydrophobia; — ain't  they  had 
the  distemper; — ain't  they?" 

"You  says  they  did,  James." 

"Ain't  I  the  one  to  know?  If  I  ain't  been  born 
with  dog-sense,  would  folks  be  giving  me  their  muts 
to  care  for?" 

"You  shot  them  pups,  James." 

"And  what  if  I  did?"  He  stormed.  "They  was 
dangerous — they  was  a  menace  to  the  community, — 
so  they  was.  And  see,  here, — you  take  it  from  me, 
there  ain't  nothing  more  dangerous  as  a  dog  when 
he  gets  took  that  there  way.  Why,  I've  heard  tell 
of  dogs  what  have  torn  men  limb  from  limb."  And 
then  he  added  in  afterthought:  "Men  that've  been 
kind  to  'em,  too." 

Her  laughter  rang  out  shrilly,  piercingly. 

"Aw,  James,"  she  giggled  hysterically.  "Aw, 
now,  James — " 

"What's  that?"  His  hand  was  on  her  hand.  "See 
here,  you,  ain't  I  kind  to  'em?" 

His  touch  sobered  her  quite  suddenly. 


1 68  THE  SCARECROW 

"Kind  to  'em—?" 

She  repeated  his  words  vaguely  as  though  not 
fully  conscious  of  their  actual  meaning. 

The  grip  of  his  fingers  tightened  cruelly  about  her 
arm. 

"Ain't  I—kind—to— 'em?" 

"Oh,  my  Gawd,"  she  whimpered.  "Oh,  my 
Gawd, — yes." 

He  went  back  to  the  center  of  the  room  and 
lighted  the  lamp  on  the  bare-boarded,  pine-wood 
table.  Its  light  flickered  in  a  sickly,  yellow  glow 
over  the  straight-backed  chairs,  across  the  unpapered 
walls,  and  dribbled  feebly  upwards  to  where  the 
heavy  rafters  of  the  ceiling  were  obliterated  in  a 
smothering  thickness  of  shadows. 

"What're  you  standing  there  for?  Pull  down  that 
blind!  Come  here,  I  say!" 

The  faint,  motionless  form  there  beside  the  dog 
house.  The  wooden,  stiffened  attitude  of  it.  The 
great  mass  of  the  chow's  rigid  body  that  was  gradu 
ally  becoming  absorbed  into  the  gray  shadow;  that 
was  slowly  losing  its  faint  outline  in  the  saturating, 
blurring  darkness. 

She  did  as  she  was  told ;  hastily,  nervously.  And 
then  she  came  and  stood  beside  the  table.  Try  as 
she  would  to  prevent  it  her  eyes  kept  on  staring 
through  the  curtained  window. 

Again  she  became  conscious  of  the  yelping,  the 
prolonged  whines,  the  quick,  incessant  barking;  and 
running  in  growling  under-current,  the  throaty,  in 
furiated  snarling. 


CHINA-CHING  169 

"I  can't  stand  it  no  more  1"  she  shrieked.  "It's 
too  much, — so  it  is!  I  just — can't — stand — it — no 
— more!" 

He  looked  up  at  her,  startled. 

"What  under  the  canopy's  eating  you?" 

She  sank  into  a  chair.  The  palms  of  her  hands 
pounded  against  each  other.  In  the  lamplight  her 
face  showed  itself  pale  and  drawn  with  the  eyes  pull 
ing  out  of  its  deadened  setness  in  live  despair. 

"You  got  to  do  something  for  me,  James."  Her 
voice  shook.  "You  simply  got  to  do  it.  I  ain't 
never  asked  nothing  from  you  before  this.  I've  been 
a  good  wife  to  you.  I've  stood  for  a  lot, — Gawd 
knows  I  have.  I  ain't  never  made  no  complaint. 
You  got  to  do  this  for  me,  James." 

"Got  to, — huh?  Them's  high  words,  my  lady. 
There  ain't  nothing  what  I  got  to  do.  You  ain't 
gone  plum  crazy,  have  you?" 

"Crazy?"  She  muttered.  "No,  I  ain't  gone 
crazy; — not  yet,  I  ain't.  Only  you  got  to  do  this  for 
me,  James." 

"What're  you  driving  at, — huh?" 

She  rose  to  her  feet  then.  When  she  spoke  her 
tone  was  quite  controlled. 

"You  got  to  let  that  chow-dog  go." 

The  man  sprang  erect. 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"You — got — to — let — China-Ching — go !  You 
got  to  let  him  get  away.  You  got  to  make  that 
China-Ching — free." 

He  laughed.    The  laugh  had  no  sound  of  mirth  in 


170  THE  SCARECROW 

it.  The  laugh  was  long  and  loud;  but  its  loudness 
could  not  cover  the  insidious  evil  of  it. 

"That's  a  good  one,"  he  shouted.  "Let  a  dog  go 
of  his  own  sweet  will  when  some  day  I'll  be  getting 
my  price  for  him.  That's  the  funniest  thing  I've 
heard  in  many  a  long  day.  Land's  sakes !  You're 
just  full  of  wit, — ain't  you?" 

"I  ain't,"  she  retorted  sullenly. 

But  he  paid  no  attention  to  her. 

"I  never  would  have  thought  it — that's  a  cinch! 
Say, — it  do  seem  I'm  learning  all  the  time." 

Her  teeth  came  together  with  a  sharp  snap. 

"Better  be  careful  you  don't  learn  too  much, — 
about  me." 

She  whispered  it  beneath  her  breath. 

"Muttering, — huh?"  He  leaned  toward  her  over 
the  table.  "I  don't  like  no  muttering.  I  ain't  the 
one  to  allow  no  muttering  around  me.  Speak  out — 
if  you  got  something  to  say; — and  if  you  ain't, — 
why,  then, — shut  up!" 

The  lamp  threw  its  full  light  up  into  his  face. 
Not  one  muscle,  not  one  wrinkle,  but  stood  out 
harshly  above  its  crude  flame.  She  drew  back  a 
step. 

"All  right."  She  had  been  goaded  into  it.  "I'll 
speak  up — All  right.  That's  what  you  wants,  ain't 
it?  I've  stood  for  enough.  I  reckon  I've  stood  for 
too  much.  You  knows  that.  But  you  ain't  thought 
that  maybe  I  knows  it, — have  you?  That  makes  a 
difference, — don't  it?  You  knows  the  way  you  treats 
me, — only  you  ain't  thought  that  I  ever  gives  it  n^ 


CHINA-CHING  171 

thought; — and  I  ain't, — no, — I  ain't;  not  till  you 
brought  that  there  China-Ching  here.  Not — till — 
you — brought — China-Ching." 

"What's  that  mut  got  to  do  between  you  and  me?" 

His  eyes  refused  to  meet  her  eyes  that  were  ablaze 
with  a  strange,  inspired  light. 

"Everything.  From  the  day  I  seen  you  bring  him 
here — ;  from  the  day  I  seen  you  beating  him  because 
he  snapped  at  you — ;  from  the  day  you  chained  him 
up  to  that  dog-house  to  break  his  spirit — ;  from  that 
day  it  come  over  me  what  you  done  to  me." 

"You're  crazy; — plum  crazy!" 

"Oh,  no,  I  ain't;"  she  went  on  in  suppressed  fury. 
"I've  slaved  for  you  when  you  was  sober,  and  when 
you  was  drunk.  I've  stood  your  kicks  and  I've  stood 
your  dirty  talk,  and  I've  stood  for  the  way  you  treats 
them  there  dogs.  And  d'you  know  why  I've  stood 
for  it, — say,  do  you?" 

His  hands  clenched  at  his  sides.  Their  knuckles 
showed  white  against  the  soiled  dark  skin. 

"No — and  what's  more — " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"I've  stood  for  it  all  because  I  knowed  that  any 
time — Any  time,  mind  you, — I  could  clear  out. 
Whenever  I  likes  I  can  get  up  and, — go!" 

"You  wouldn't  dare; — you  ain't  got  the  nerve  I" 

"I  have—;  I  have,— too." 

"Where'd  you  go,— huh?" 

"I'd  get  away  from  you, — all  right." 

"What'dyou  do?" 

"That  ain't  of  no  account  to  you!" 


'172  THE  SCARECROW 

He  watched  her  for  a  second  between  half-closed 
lids.  A  cunning  smile  spread  itself  over  his  thick 
lips.  He  walked  to  the  door  and  threw  it  wide  open. 

"You  can  go — if  you  likes; — you  can  go, — now!5* 

Her  hand  went  to  her  heart.  The  scant  color  in 
her  face  left  it.  She  took  one  hesitating  step  for 
ward  and  then  she  stood  quite  still. 

"If  you  lets  the  dog  go — -I  stays." 

Her  words  sounded  muffled. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  dog's  my  dog.  I  ain't  able  to  see  where 
he  comes  in  on  all  this." 

"You  can't  see  nothing; — you  don't  want  to  see! 
It's  knowing  too  well  what  that  pup's  up  against  that 
makes  me  want  you  to  let  him  go.  It's  that  I 
don't  want  to  have  the  heart  took  out  of  him; — the 
way  you  took  the  heart  out  of  me, — that  makes  me 
want  to  have  him  set  free." 

He  gave  a  noiseless  chuckle. 

"So  I  took  the  heart  out  of  you, — did  I?" 

She  glared  at  him  savagely. 

"You  knows  you  did!" 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent. 

"Well?"    He  asked. 

She  saw  him  wave  a  hand  toward  the  door. 

"Aw,  James,  you  can't  be  so  cruel  bad — You  can't. 
The  other  dogs  don't  mind  it — ;  they  makes  a  noise 
and  they  tears  around.  And  then  they  eats  and 
drinks  and  late  at  nights  they  lies  down  and  sleeps; 
— if  there  ain't  no  moon.  But  that  China-Ching  he 


CHINA-CHING  173 

ain't  like  them.  Maybe — he  is  savage; — maybe 
you're  right  to  be  afraid  of  him." 

His  whole  figure  was  suddenly  taut.  His  head 
shrank  into  his  shoulders. 

"There  ain't  nothing  I'm  afraid  of; — get  that  into 
your  head — I  ain't  afraid  of  nothing — And  if  you 
wants  to  go, — why,  all  I  got  to  say  is,  you  can — 
git!" 

A  stillness  came  between  them,  broken  only  by  the 
sounds  from  the  kennels.  The  yelping,  the  shrill 
prolonged  whines,  the  quick,  incessant  barking;  and 
running  in  growling  under-current,  the  throaty,  in 
furiated  snarling. 

He  went  to  the  table  and  took  the  lamp  up  in  one 
hand.  He  went  over  to  the  door  and  closed  it  with 
a  loud  bang.  Then  he  started  toward  the  stairs. 

"If  you  ain't  able  to  bring  yourself  to  leave  me," 
the  words  came  to  her  over  his  shoulder,  "you  can 
come  on  up  to  bed." 

Mechanically  she  followed  him  up  the  steps.  Me 
chanically  she  went  through  the  process  of  undressing 
and  washing.  Long  after  he  had  fallen  asleep  she 
lay  there  wide  awake  watching  the  moonlight  trickle 
in  quivering,  golden  spots  across  the  floor;  lay  wide 
awake  listening  to  the  eerie  baying  of  the  dogs. 

She  had  had  her  chance  of  freedom  and  at  the 
last  moment  her  courage  had  failed  her.  What  she 
had  told  him  had  been  the  absolute  truth.  She  had 
never  realized  what  had  happened  to  her,  what  a 
stifled,  smothered  thing  she  had  become,  until  that 


i74  THE  SCARECROW 

day  when  he  had  brought  the  chow-dog  home  to  the 
kennels. 

She  had  married  James  when  she  was  very  young. 
Their  fathers*  farms  adjoined.  It  had  been  the  ex 
pected  thing  and  she  had  gone  through  with  it  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course.  In  those  days  he  had  been 
somewhat  ambitious.  The  country-folk  around  ad 
mitted  grudgingly  that  James  Conover  was  a  born 
farmer.  Then  the  old  people,  both  their  fathers  and 
his  mother,  had  grown  a  bit  older,  and  one  by  one 
they  had  died.  There  had  been  nothing  violent  in 
their  deaths.  Silent,  narrow-minded,  like  most 
country  persons  they  had  grown  a.  trifle  more  silent, 
a  trifle  more  bigoted,  and  then  they  were  dead.  It 
had  seemed  to  her  that  way  at  any  rate.  She  had 
become  conscious  all  of  a  sudden  that  she  was  alone 
with  James.  Strange  that  the  consciousness  should 
have  come  to  her  after  she  had  been  alone  with  him 
for  three  years;  and  then  that  she  should  only  realize 
she  was  alone  in  the  world  with  him  the  first  time  he 
came  home  drunk.  After  that  he  took  to  drinking 
more  and  more,  and  finally  he  gave  up  farming.  It 
had  been  quite  by  accident  that  he  took  to  boarding 
dogs ;  now  and  then  buying  one  for  a  quick  turn.  He 
liked  the  job.  As  far  as  she  could  see  it  gave  him 
more  time  to  spend  in  the  village  saloon. 

One  thing  she  had  never  been  able  to  understand. 
In  her  heart  she  was  certain  that  James  was  terrified 
of  the  animals.  She  had  seen  him  shoot  a  dog  at 
the  slightest  provocation.  But  until  she  had  seen  the 
chow  she  had  never  bothered  with  the  beasts.  She 


CHINA-CHING  175 

had  cooked  their  meals  but  she  had  not  been  allowed 
to  feed  them.  She  had  watched  them  from  the  out 
side  of  the  kennels  but  she  had  never  gone  in  to 
them.  She  had  tolerated  their  racket  because  she 
had  never  fully  understood  what  lay  in  back  of  it 
all.  And  then  the  chow  came. 

James  had  brought  China-Ching  home  in  the  old 
runabout;  brought  him  to  the  kennels  tied  down  in 
a  great  basket.  She  had  not  paid  much  attention  to 
either  man  or  dog.  The  first  sight  that  she  had  of 
the  chow  had  been  because  of  James.  She  had  heard 
his  cursing  and  the  crack  of  his  huge  whip.  She  had 
gone  out  on  the  porch  then  and  had  seen  the  man 
beating  the  dog  with  all  his  strength;  the  man  swear 
ing  loudly  and  furiously  and  the  chow  silent.  She 
had  never  gotten  over  that  spectacle.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  seen  a  dog  maintain  silence. 

And  then  day  after  day  she  had  watched  China- 
Ching,  chained  there  and  so  strangely  silent.  Among 
all  those  yapping,  yipping  dogs  he  alone  had  re 
mained  quiet.  And  the  other  animals  had  paid  scant 
attention  to  him  after  the  first  short  while.  Even 
in  their  wild  racing  about  the  enclosure  they  had 
given  him  a  wide  berth.  There  was  something  mag 
nificent,  something  almost  majestic  in  the  chow's 
aloofness.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  dog's  eyes  she 
would  have  thought  him  dumb; — a  fool.  But  the 
eyes  haunted  her.  Great  liquid  brown  eyes,  that 
met  hers  with  unutterable  sadness;  eyes  that  clutched 
and  held  on  to  her  with  the  depths  of  their  sorrow. 

She  made  up  her  mind  after  the  first  month  that 


176  THE  SCARECROW 

she  must  free  the  dog;  that  she  must  get  him  out  of 
the  kennels  somehow  or  other.  She  had  never 
thought  of  a  direct  appeal  to  James.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  way  he  had  goaded  her  this  evening  she 
would  never  have  spoken  as  she  did.  Only  she  had 
always  known  that  it  would  not  be  in  her  power  to 
let  the  dog  escape  from  the  kennels  without  his 
finding  who  had  done  it;  without  bearing  the  brunt 
of  his  inevitable  rage. 

And  after  the  first  month  she  began  almost  un 
consciously  to  associate  herself  with  the  chow,  to 
put  herself  in  his  place.  As  she  commenced  to  un 
derstand  what  his  desires  for  freedom  must  be  so 
she  first  realized  that  those  same  desires  were  hers. 
Only,  as  she  phrased  it  to  herself,  she  could  stand  it  a 
lot  better  than  the  chow.  Dogs  could  not  reason. 
She  could  go  on  existing  this  way  till  the  end  of  her 
days;  but  she  felt  that  if  China-Ching  could  not  be 
freed  that  he  would  die.  She  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  that.  Whatever  happened  to  the  dog 
would  happen  to  that  part  of  her  which  had  come 
into  being  when  the  dog  had  come. 

The  moonlight  trickled  further  and  further  into 
the  room.  The  stream  of  it  spilled  itself  wider  and 
wider  along  the  shadow-specked  floor. 

She  could  hear  the  man's  deep  breathing,  now  and 
then  punctuated  by  a  guttural  snore.  The  eerie  bay 
ing  of  the  dogs;  and  out  there  the  one  silent  dog 
ohained  to  the  dog-house. 

Not  one  moment  longer  could  she  endure  it. 

Very  stealthily  she  got  up  and  slipped  on  her 


CHINA-CHING  177 

skirt.  Shoeless  and  stockingless  she  crept  out  into 
the  hall  and  down  the  stairs.  Unbolting  the  front 
door,  she  paused  an  instant  to  hear  if  she  had  been 
detected.  With  strained  ears  she  listened  for  those 
harsh,  long-drawn  snores.  But  the  house  was  very 
still.  She  could  not  hear  his  breathing  from  where 
she  was.  If  only  he  would  snore.  She  waited.  The 
sound  came  to  her  at  last.  She  hurried  out  on  to 
the  porch. 

The  dampness  of  the  summer  night  was  all  about 
her.  Overhead  the  pale  flecks  of  innumerable  stars, 
and  the  far,  cold  light  of  the  waning  moon.  From 
somewheres  in  the  distance  came  the  monotonous 
droning  of  locusts.  Against  the  dark  clump  of 
bushes  darted  the  quick,  illusive  glimmer  of  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp. 

She  shivered  as  her  feet  struck  the  chill,  wet  grass. 
And  then  very  slowly  she  went  toward  the  kennels. 

Her  eyes  took  no  note  of  the  dogs  that  lay  on  the 
ground;  of  the  little  fox-terrier  sniffing  here  and 
there  along  the  wall  for  rats;  of  the  big  police-dog, 
and  the  massive  English  bull,  reared  on  their 
haunches,  their  muzzles  lifted  to  the  moon.  She 
only  saw,  chained  to  the  dog-house, — a  pale  blur 
in  the  haunting,  whitened  light, — the  silent,  yellow 
mass  of  the  chow, — China-Ching.  She  knew  that  the 
great,  liquid  brown  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her;  she 
could  feel  them  drawing  her  on.  She  went  toward 
him. 

Very  silently  she  went      And  as   she  went  shr. 
mumbled, 


1 78  THE  SCARECROW 

"If  they  start  a  rumpus, — the  same  racket, — may 
be, — if  he  wakes  he  won't  think  nothing  of  it; — that 
is,  if  he  ain't  enough  awake  to  know  I  ain't  there 
besides  him.  Maybe  though,  he  won't  wake; — may 
be  they  won't  make  no  noise; — maybe  he  won't — 
please,  Gawd — 1  only  to  get  China-Ching, — so  that 
he  can  feel  free — please,  Gawd! — so's  China-Ching 
don't  have  to  stay — so  that  I — please  Gawd! — so's 
I  can  set  something — free." 

She  suddenly  became  afraid  to  approach  too  si 
lently.  Afraid  of  the  deafening  uproar  of  a  dog's 
warning.  Already  the  police-dog  had  stopped  his 
regular  baying;  already  the  little  fox-terrier  sniffed 
the  air  through  the  wire  netting,  sensing  some  one 
coming.  If  only  she  had  thought  to  get  them  some 
bones;  if  only  she  had  a  piece  of  meat;  a  dog-biscuit, 
— anything  to  throw  to  them  to  keep  them  quiet. 
But  she  had  not  had  time  to  think  of  that. 

She  began  to  whistle  softly,  and  then  a  bit  louder 
as  she  realized  that  she  had  whistled  the  call  of  the 
whip-poor-will.  The  police-dog  got  to  his  feet.  She 
could  hear  the  sinister  rumbling  of  his  throaty  snarl 
ing.  She  saw  the  bull-dog  waddling  clumsily  after 
him.  They  stood  there,  their  coats  bristling,  their 
ears  erect,  their  muzzles  poked  into  the  wire  netting. 
And  then  a  quick  bark  from  quite  the  other  side  of 
the  kennels. 

She  felt  that  numberless  small  eyes  were  peering 
out  at  her  with  betraying  cunning.  It  seemed  to  her 
.that  innumerable  dogs  were  rising  from  the  ground; 


CHINA-CHING  179 

were  rushing  to  the  walls;  were  tearing  out  of  their 
separate  kennels. 

She  called  then;  called  very  low,  in  the  hope  that 
they  might  know  her  voice. 

"China-Ching ; — oh,  China-Ching." 

She  was  face  to  face  with  it  now.  All  through 
the  day  she  managed  somehow  to  bear  with  it. 
Hideous  as  it  was,  deafening  so  that  she  could  not 
hear,  hated  so  that  it  made  her  physically  ill.  And 
now  in  the  dead  of  night  it  was  let  loose;  with  the 
unlimited  stillness  of  the  night  vibrating  in  grotesque, 
yapping  echo,  with  the  cold  light  of  the  moon  spot 
ting  uncanny  over  the  kennels,  she  had  it.  The  yelp 
ing,  the  shrill,  prolonged  whines,  the  quick  incessant 
barking;  and  running  in  growling  under-current,  the 
throaty,  infuriated  snarling. 

She  knew  then  that  it  was  quite  beyond  hope  that 
James  should  not  hear  them.  She  had  to  hurry.  She 
began  to  run;  and  all  the  while  she  called  in  the 
same  low  voice : 

uChina-Ching; — I'm  coming  to  you.  Oh  China- 
Ching—" 

She  pulled  back  the  stiff,  iron  bolts.  It  took  all 
her  strength  to  do  that.  She  opened  the  gate  a  bit, 
and  slipped  in,  pushing  it  to,  behind  her. 

And  then  she  was  among  them.  Their  noise  in 
creased  in  volume, — pitched  in  a  shriller  note.  The 
sudden  rush  of  them  threw  her  off  her  feet.  Some 
of  them  leaped  on  her.  She  felt  a  sharp,  stinging  nip 
in  her  wrist.  In  a  second  she  was  up  again. 

"Down!"    She  commanded.     "Down!" 


i  So  THE  SCARECROW 

She  went  toward  the  chow,  pushing  the  other  dogs 
out  of  her  way  with  both  hands ;  stumbling,  stepping 
over  them  as  they  crowded  about  her  feet. 

"Down!"  She  murmured  breathless. 

It  was  not  until  she  got  well  within  a  couple  of 
strides  of  the  chow  that  the  other  dogs  dropped  away 
from  her.  It  was  the  same  thing  that  she  had  wit 
nessed  a  hundred  times  from  her  window.  The  ani 
mals  had  always  given  China-Ching  a  wide  berth; 
had  always  respected  his  magnificent,  majestic  aloof 
ness.  And  as  she  reached  him  she  fell  to  her  knees. 

"China-Ching;"  she  whispered  brokenly.  "China- 
Ching!" 

Her  arms  went  around  the  dog's  neck.  Her  hands 
stroked  the  thick  ruff  at  his  throat.  She  felt  a  cold 
nose  on  her  cheek.  A  slow,  deep  sniffing;  a  second 
later  two  heavy  paws  were  on  her  shoulder,  and  a 
warm,  moist  tongue  curled  again  and  again  about 
her  ear. 

In  the  moonlight  she  looked  into  his  eyes.  The 
great,  liquid  brown  eyes  met  hers  with  all  their 
unutterable  sadness. 

"D'you  want  to  go,  China-Ching?"  She  mur 
mured;  "d'you  want  to  go  and  be  free?" 

Her  fingers  were  working  swiftly  at  his  collar. 
As  it  clanked  to  the  ground  she  felt  him  stiffen  rigidly 
beneath  her  touch.  She  saw  his  ears  go  back  flat 
against  his  head;  she  saw  his  upper  lip  pulled  so  that 
the  long,  sharp  teeth  showed  glisteningly  in  the 
huckle-berry,  blue  gums.  She  followed  the  set  stare 


CHINA-CHING  181 

of  his  eyes,  and  what  she  saw  sent  a  shiver  down 
her  spine. 

Coming  across  the  waste  that  had  once  been  a 
garden,  running  stumblingly  in  the  full  path  of  the 
moonlight,  came  James.  And  the  other  dogs  had 
seen  him.  She  realized  that  when  she  heard  the 
growling,  the  snarling,  the  low,  infuriated  snorts. 

She  rushed  back  to  the  gate. 

James  saw  her  then. 

"Get  away,"  he  shouted.    "Get  away  from  there !" 

She  threw  the  gate  open  and  stood  leaning  against 
it  to  keep  it  wide. 

"China-Ching,"  she  called;  "come  on, — China- 
Ching!" 

But  it  was  the  other  dogs  that  tore  past  her.  First 
one,  then  another,  then  two  together,  and  then  the 
whole  wild,  panting  pack  of  them. 

"For  Gawd's  sake;"  the  man  shrieked.  "Get- 
get — "  The  words  were  lost  in  his  breathless 
choking. 

The  chow-dog  was  the  last  to  go.  For  a  second 
he  stood  beside  her.  She  bent  over  him.  She  was 
afraid  to  touch  him;  afraid  that  at  that  moment 
her  hands  might  involuntarily  hold  him. 

"Go  on,  China-Ching;"  she  urged  frantically;  "go 
on!" 

"Hey,  you — 1"  The  man  stormed  at  the  dogs. 
"Here — ,  here — !"  He  whistled;  "here,  boy, — here, 
old  fellow, — come  on; — " 

He  suddenly  stood  still.  He  tried  to  make  hi* 
whistling  persuasive.  He  was  out  of  breath.  When 


1 82  THE  SCARECROW 

he  saw  that  they  would  not  come  to  him  he  ran 
after  them.  They  scattered  pellmell  before  him. 
She  saw  them  disappearing  in  every  direction.  Some 
of  them  slinking  away  with  their  tails  between  their 
legs ;  some  of  them  crawling  into  the  bushes  on  their 
bellies;  some  of  them  rushing  head-long,  racing  mad 
ly  into  the  night.  Only  the  yellow  mass  of  the  chow- 
dog  went  in  even  padded  patter  out  toward  the 
road. 

She  waited  there  for  James.  She  could  not  think. 
She  only  waited. 

And  at  last  he  came  back. 

"You — "    His  voice  was  low;  "you — !" 

The  words  were  smothered  in  his  anger. 

She  smiled  then.  She  thought  that  she  still  could 
hear  the  even,  padded  patter  of  the  dog  jogging  to 
his  freedom. 

"So  you  turned  on  me; — you — !  D'you  know 
what's  going  to  happen  to  you; — d'you  dare  to 
think?" 

Her  voice  was  filled  with  a  strange  calm. 

"I  don't  care,  James; — I  don't  care — none.  I  set 
China-Ching  loose." 

His  face  leered  at  her  evilly  in  the  moonlight. 

"You  ain't  got  no  excuses; — you  don't  even  make 
no  excuses  to  me; — huh?" 

"No,  James;— no!" 

Her  tone  was  exultant. 

The  even,  padded  patter  was  still  in  her  ears.  It 
seemed  so  near.  She  saw  the  man's  raised  fist.  The 


CHINA-CHING  183 

coarse,  bulging  hammer  of  it.  She  felt  that  some 
thing  was  behind  her.  She  turned. 

The  chow  stood  there — His  ears  back;  his  coat 
bristling,  the  hairs  standing  on  end  in  tremendous 
bushiness;  his  fangs  laid  bare.  There  he  crouched, 
drawn  together,  ready  to  spring. 

The  man  took  a  step  toward  her.  Out  of  the  cor 
ner  of  her  eyes  she  could  see  the  huge  taut  fist. 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,  James ;"  she  said  quietly. .  "I 
just — wouldn't!" 

"You'll  live  to  rue  the  day."  The  words  came 
hoarsely,  gutturally.  "I'm  going  to  beat  you, 
woman.  I'm  going  to  beat  you, — damn  good!" 

"You  ain't ;"  she  said.    "Look,  James !" 

She  pointed  to  the  chow. 

"Call  him  off;"  the  man  shrieked.  "D'you  want 
him  to  kill  me?" 

She  saw  him  trembling  with  fear,  paralyzed  with 
terror  so  that  his  clenched  hand  still  reached  above 
his  head, — shaking.  She  thought  then  of  the  pistol 
he  always  carried  with  him.  For  the  second  time  she 
smiled.  She  saw  him  try  to  take  a  step  backwards. 
His  knees  almost  gave  way  under  him.  The  chow 
wormed  a  bit  nearer. 

"Call  him  off; — take  him  away.  Damn  you,  speak 
to  him — !  For  Gawd's  sake, — do  something; — " 
he  whined. 

She  looked  at  the  man,  cowed;  abjectly  afraid. 
She  had  nothing  more  to  fear  from  him.  He  was 
beaten.  Her  hand  went  out  until  it  rested  on  the 
dog's  head. 


1 84  THE  SCARECROW 

"It's  all  right,  China-Ching.  It's  all  right, — now." 
She  felt  the  chow's  great  eyes  fixed  on  her  face; 
she  felt  that  he  was  waiting.  "You  can  go  on, 
James; — go  on  into  the  house!" 

"What — what  d'you  mean?" 

He  stuttered. 

'Tm  going,"  she  said.  "Me,  and  China-Ching. 
I  told  you  I'd  go  when  I  was  ready; — but  I  wasn't 
going  alone.  That's  what  you  ain't  understood, 
James.  Now  we're  both  going.  And  you  better  be 
meandering  up  to  your  house,  or  maybe  China- 
Ching  he'll  be  getting  tired  of  waiting." 

Slowly  the  man  turned;  ponderously,  his  figure 
huddled  together,  he  started  back  stumbling  along  in 
the  full  path  of  the  moonlight. 

She  thought  she  saw  his  fingers  fumbling  to  his 
hip-pocket. 

"Stop !"  She  called.  "None  of  that,  James.  This 
here's  one  time  when  that  there  gun  don't  work." 

"I  ain't  got  no  gun."  The  mumbled  words  came 
back  to  her  indistinctly.  "D'you  think  if  I'd  have 
had—" 

"Stand  where  you  are.  And  don't  you  make  no 
move  from  there.  We'll  be  on  our  way, — now." 

He  stood  still. 

"Come  on,  China-Ching." 

She  started  toward  the  road,  the  dog  at  her  heels. 
Once  as  she  went  she  turned  to  look  at  the  emptied, 
quiet  kennels,  at  the  moonlight  drenched  waste  that 
had  once  been  a  garden;  at  the  huddled  figure  of  the 
man  standing  there  so  silently. 


CHINA-CHING  185 

uGood-by,  James,"  she  called. 

Out  in  the  road  she  paused  to  look  up  and  down 
the  long,  white  stretch  of  it.  The  chow  stopped  at 
her  side.  His  great,  liquid  brown  eyes  were  raised  to 
hers.  She  could  feel  his  impatience  to  be  off.  Sud 
denly  he  started. 

Her  feet  followed  those  padded,  pattering  feet. 

uAw,  China-Ching,"  she  whispered,  "aw,  China- 
Ching— " 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES 

/JND  I  do  hereby  swear  and  take  unto  myself 
^/JL  right  solemnly  and  in  most  sacred  oath  before 
the  Lord  God  to  prove  myself  innocent  of  this  most 
awful  and  hideous  crime,  for  the  which,  in  the  morn 
ing,  I  do  swing  by  the  neck.  I,  Cedric  of  Hampden, 
do  swear  to  show  with  the  righteous  help  of  most 
high  God,  that  it  is  not  I  who  beareth  the  blood  guilt 
of  the  mwther  of  the  Lady  Beatrix. 

There  is  in  this  world  a  certain  devilish  influence 
that  worketh  most  evilly  against  the  high  Heavens 
and  the  good  in  man,  and  the  which  doeth  foully 
with  the  flesh  of  man  and  bringeth  the  soul  of  him 
unto  the  stinking  depths  of  hell.  I,  Cedric  of 
Hampden,  having  scant  knowledge  of  the  meanings 
of  witchcraft,  or  of  magic,  either  black  or  white, 
have  many  times  and  oft  felt  the  spell  which  lyeth  so 
infernally  o'er  the  Wood  of  Living  Trees.  I,  who 
loveth  the  Lady  Beatrix,  who  did  meet  her  death 
the  while  she  wandered  within  the  confines  of  the 
Wood  of  Living  Trees,  searching  therein  for  the 
Crucifix  which  she  did  lose  from  of  her  neck,  do 
accuse  no  one  of  the  killing  of  her  whom  I  loved. 
Yet  unto  myself  I  do  confess  the  knowledge  of  this 
evil  thing,  the  which  I  have  assured  myself  hath 
the  power  at  all  times  to  become  incarnate. 

189 


1 90  THE  SCARECROW 

This  will  I  prove.  At  some  unknown  time  will  I 
show  that  in  this  world  a  certain  devilish  influence 
worketh  most  evilly  against  the  high  Heavens  and 
the  good  in  man.  I  do  confess  the  knowing  of  this 
to  be  true,  and  many  times  and  oft  have  I  convinced 
myself  that  this  Satanic  thing  hath  the  power  to  be 
come  incarnate. 

In  the  morning  I  hang.  God,  the  Father,  Christ, 
the  Son,  come  unto  me  in  purgatory  that  I  may  ful 
fil  my  sacred  oath  and  that  the  soul  of  her  I  love 
may  find  peace  within  the  seven  golden  gates  of 
Heaven. 

At  first  there  was  not  one  of  them  who  noticed  it. 
Strange  that  people  who  are  forever  entertaining 
are  so  very  apt  to  disregard  the  congeniality  of  their 
guests.  Perhaps  they  become  calloused;  probably 
they  grow  tired  of  a  ceaseless  picking  and  choosing. 

After  a  while  they  caught  on  to  it.  It  was  one  of 
those  things  that  could  not  be  avoided.  Gregory 
Manners  never  was  the  sort  of  chap  to  conceal  his 
feelings,  and  very  evidently  he  had  most  decided 
ones  in  regard  to  the  Russian,  Stephanof  Andrey- 
vitch. 

He  was  much  in  vogue,  was  Andreyvitch.  It  was 
considered  rather  a  stunt  to  get  him  to  come  to  one 
of  your  dinners.  He  was  tremendously  in  demand. 
Not  that  Andreyvitch  had  ever  done  anything  to 
make  himself  famous.  It  was  just  the  personality 
of  the  man.  Women  would  tell  you  that  he  was 
fascinating,  different.  Of  course  there  were  some 
of  them,  the  stupid,  fastidious  ones,  who  took  of- 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      191 

fense  at  his  looks.  No  one  could  ever  say  they  were 
in  any  way  prepossessing.  He  was  fairly  well  built, 
extremely  sinewy.  His  arms  were  noticeably  long 
and  he  had  an  odd  fashion  of  always  walking  on  the 
balls  of  his  feet.  Add  to  that  a  rather  narrow  face, 
a  heavy  nose,  deep-set  eyes,  a  bit  too  close  together, 
and  a  shock  of  reddish-brown  hair,  which  grew  over 
his  head  and  face  in  great  abundance.  Most  men 
would  not  pretend  to  understand  him.  He  was  at 
all  times  courteous.  Perhaps  even  too  suavely  po 
lite  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  temperament.  He  aired 
his  views  with  a  wonderful  assurance;  views  that 
had  to  do  chiefly  with  aestheticism  and  a  violent  dis 
regard  of  all  conventional  thought.  When  Andrey- 
vitch  spoke,  one  had  the  feeling  that  he  feared  to  ex 
press  himself  too  well;  that  after  all  his  wicked  dis 
belief  in  the  things  in  which  most  men  placed  their 
entire  faith  was  something  actually  a  part  of  him; 
something  which  might  even  cause  the  amazing 
heathenism  of  his  talk  to  be  somewhat  subdued.  And 
when  Stephanof  Andreyvitch  spoke,  one  could  not 
help  but  notice  his  teeth.  Yellow,  horridly  decayed 
things  they  were,  with  the  two  eye-teeth  on  either 
side  surprisingly  pointed,  like  fangs. 

Of  course,  in  his  way  Gregory  Manners  was  a 
bit  of  a  lion.  It  was  that  which  undoubtedly  made 
them  attribute  his  dislike  of  the  Russian  to  jeal 
ousy.  At  least  at  first.  Afterwards  they  found 
plenty  of  other  reasons.  Naturally  one  of  them 
was  Kathleen.  But  that  came  much  later  on. 

He  had  traveled  all  over  the  world,  had  Man- 


1 92  THE  SCARECROW 

ners,  and  he  wrote  charmingly  vague  bits  that  one 
read  and  then  forgot.  He  took  himself  very  seri 
ously.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  believe  firmly 
and  basically  that  they  are  sent  into  this  world  with 
a  mission  to  perform.  One  could  ynot  actually  tell 
whether  Manners  really  thought  his  writing  to  be 
his  life  work.  His  best  friends  maintained  that  he 
had  not  as  yet  found  himself.  But  no  one  bothered 
to  ask  him  the  question.  His  work  was  good;  he 
was  a  distinctly  decent  sort  of  chap,  utterly  British, 
and  he  was  above  all  else  exceedingly  interesting. 
For  the  most  part,  people  were  really  fond  of  Man 
ners,  and  he  fond  of  them. 

The  first  time  Andreyvitch  and  Manners  were 
introduced,  Manners  had  the  feeling  that  they  had 
met  at  some  time  before.  He  even  asked  the  Rus 
sian  if  it  had  not  been  in  Moscow.  When  Andrey 
vitch  told  him  that  he  had  never  in  his  whole  life 
seen  him,  and  that  he  positively  regretted  not  hav 
ing  done  so,  Manners1  attitude  underwent  a  sudden 
and  unexpected  change.  He  became  silent,  almost 
morose.  He  kept  away  from  Andreyvitch  all  eve 
ning,  and  yet  he  stayed  near  enough  to  him  to  watch 
his  every  move. 

After  that  night  Manners  decided  he  hated  An 
dreyvitch;  that  he  knew  the  man  was  a  liar,  an  im 
postor.  Not  at  the  time  that  he  was  in  any  way 
jealous  of  the  Russian;  still  there  was  a  strange 
familiar  feeling  there  that  he  had  felt  at  some  other 
time,  and  in  connection  with  the  same  man.  He 
could  have  sworn  he  had  known  him  before.  It 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      193 

was  the  only  way  then  in  which  he  could  explain 
the  thing  to  himself  with  any  degree  of  coherence. 

It  was  never  difficult  to  get  Gregory  Manners  to 
speak  of  the  first  evening  he  met  Andreyvitch.  It 
was  almost  as  if  he  were  tremendously  puzzled,  as 
if  he  thought  speaking  of  it,  even  to  a  casual 
acquaintance,  might  clear  things  up  to  himself.  He 
never  varied  the  thing.  At  first,  at  any  rate.  Later 
on  he  became  strangely,  uncannily  secretive  about  it 
all.  That  must  have  been  when  he  began  to  sus 
pect  there  was  a  great  deal  more  to  it  than  had  ap 
peared  upon  the  surface. 

"D'you  know?"  His  words  always  came  slowly. 
"Deuce  take  it!  I  thought  I  was  going  to  like 
the  fellow.  I'd  heard  so  much  about  him,  too. 
Why,  old  chap,  I  was  anxious;  positively  keen,  to 
know  him.  And  then — Why,  when  I  stood  face  to 
face  with  him,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  but  that 
I  had  known  him,  or  did  know  him,  or  something. 
First  glance  and  I  saw  he  was  one  of  those  poseurs. 
One  of  those  rummy  fellows  who  affect  poses  be 
cause  they're  always  consciously  trying  to  imitate 
the  people  about  them.  That's  it,  you  know.  They 
can't  be  themselves  because  of  some  queer  kink  they 
funk  expressing.  So  they  fake  other  people  and 
quite  naturally  they  overdo  it." 

He  would  usually  get  worked  up  about  this  time; 
and  then  he  would  go  on  a  lot  more  quickly: 

"I've  seen  them  the  world  over.  There  was  one 
chap — but — well — I  thought  this — this  fellow  who 
calls  himself  Andreyvitch,  was  just  going  to  be  one 


i94  THE  SCARECROW 

of  them — poseurs,  you  know.  He  looked  harmless 
enough  to  be  sure.  Of  course  there  were  his  eyes — > 
and  the  way  he  walks — but  then — I  couldn't  help 
feeling  he  wasn't  quite — quite  cricket.  That  came 
over  me  confoundedly  strongly  at  the  very  first  min 
ute.  And  when  he  smiled — I  say,  man,  d'you  ever 
see  such  damnably  wicked  teeth?" 

And  the  man  to  whom  he  spoke  always  had  to 
admit  that  he  had  never  seen  such  teeth. 

Later  on  Manners  never  worked  himself  up  as 
much. 

"That  fellow  who  calls  himself  Andreyvitch — 
I've  met  him  before.  Don't  know  where;  and  at 
that  I've  a  pretty  fair  head  for  names  and  places. 
But  I  know  him.  He  may  have  looked  differently, 
and  it  probably  was  in  some  of  those  out-of-the- 
way  holes;  but  I  know  him.  I  don't  say  he  was  the 
Russian  Andreyvitch  when  I  knew  him; — but — Well, 
old  chap,  we'll  see." 

They  stopped  asking  Andreyvitch  and  Manners 
around  together  after  a  while.  But  that  never 
kept  Manners  from  speaking  of  the  Russian. 

"Was  Andreyvitch  there?" 

''They  don't  ask  us  together,  eh?" 

No    fear,    old   chap,    of   my    insulting   him;    I 
couldn't,  you  know!" 

"Rather  a  filthy  sort  of  beggar,  that  Russian; 
makes  the  gooseflesh  come  over  me.  Happened 
before.  Deuce  take  the  thing! — If  I  could  only 
think  when!" 

And  then  after  Manners  had  dropped  out  of  sight 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      195 

for  a  fortnight  or  more,  he  suddenly  made  his  ap 
pearance  at  the  club. 

They  were  all  of  them  unspeakably  shocked  by 
his  looks.  He  never  carried  much  weight,  but  in 
those  two  weeks  he  had  gotten  down  to  little  else 
than  skin  and  bones.  His  color  was  ghastly.  His 
cheekbones  were  appallingly  prominent  and  his  eyes 
looked  as  if  they  were  sunken  back  into  his  skull. 

To  all  their  questions  he  gave  the  same  answer: 

"No,  he  wasn't  ill.  No,  he  hadn't  been  ill.  There 
was  nothing  the  matter  with  him.  He'd  felt  a  bit 
seedy  and  he'd  run  down  to  his  place  for  a  fortnight. 
It  was  good  of  them  to  bother.  He  was  quite,  quite 
all  right." 

They  saw  he  wanted  to  be  left  alone  and  they 
let  him  go  over  to  the  window  and  sit  there,  his 
great,  loose  frame  huddled  together  in  the  leather 
arm  chair. 

There  could  not  have  been  more  than  three  or 
four  of  them  sitting  near  him.  It  was  only  those 
three  or  four  who  saw  him  stagger  to  his  feet,  sway 
ing  there  dizzily  for  a  second.  Only  those  three 
or  four  who  could  distinguish  the  words  spoken  in 
that  low,  half  strangled  whisper. 

"That's  it — I've  got  it  now — Something  rotten; 
always  living — Always  waiting  the  chance  to  do  its 
filthy  harm!  The  power  to  incarnate — in  any  form. 
The  greater  its  loathsomeness,  the  greater  that  in 
carnating  stuff!  Probably  at  most  times  more  beast 
than  human — but  it  could  take  on  human  guise — 
that's  it— that's— " 


196  THE  SCARECROW 

And  those  three  or  four  men  saw  him  rush  out 
of  the  reading-room,  his  head  thrown  well  back, 
his  eyes  ablaze  with  a  great  light. 

And  then  Mrs.  Broughton-Hollins  gave  the 
famous  house-party.  The  house-party  of  which 
every  member,  although  not  fully  understanding, 
tried  to  forget.  The  house-party  which  drove  Greg 
ory  Manners  and  Kathleen  Bennet  out  of  England. 

Mrs.  Broughton-Hollins  was  a  charming  little 
American  widow,  with  untold  wealth  and  a  desire 
to  do  everything,  everywhere,  with  every  one.  Of 
course  she  always  managed  to  get  a  lot  of  nice  peo 
ple  together,  and  of  course  she  picked  the  very 
nicest  ones  for  her  house-party.  Then  because  she 
had  set  her  heart  on  having  the  Russian,  Stephanof 
Andreyvitch,  she  naturally  got  him  to  come,  and  be 
cause  she  had  Kathleen  Bennet,  she  had  to  ask 
Gregory.  Kathleen  and  Gregory  were  engaged  to 
be  married. 

She  was  a  dear,  was  Kathleen.  As  pretty  as  a 
picture  and  delightfully  simple-minded.  Her  father 
belonged  to  the  clergy,  and  her  family  consisted  of 
innumerable  brothers  and  sisters.  Gregory  Man 
ners,  who  had  traveled  the  world  over,  fell  quite 
completely  in  love  with  her.  And  she — She  wor 
shiped  the  ground  he  walked  on. 

No  one  ever  quite  knew  whether  or  not  Manners 
heard  that  Andreyvitch  was  to  be  of  the  house- 
party.  Perhaps  he  had;  probably  he  had  not.  If 
Kathleen  were  to  be  there,  that  would  have  been 
all-sufficient,  as  far  as  Manners  was  concerned. 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      197 

By  that  time  Manners  had  worked  himself  out 
of  his  frenzy  of  hatred  against  the  Russian.  They 
had  been  able  to  explain  it  to  themselves  by  saying 
that  he  had  talked  himself  into  it.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  whole  thing  was  totally  subconscious. 
Whenever  he  had  become  conscious  the  man  was 
anywhere  near  him,  he  had  begun  to  realize  his 
hatred  of  him.  But  now  it  had  gone  infinitely  fur 
ther  than  just  that. 

Manners  had  become  uncannily  quiet  and  un 
cannily  knowing. 

They  were  all  together  in  the  hall  when  Man 
ners,  as  usual,  came  in  late.  Mrs.  Broughten-Hol- 
lins  and  an  ansemic  looking  youth,  who  always 
lounged  about  in  her  wake;  a  man  named  Galvin,  an 
oldish  chap,  who  had  seen  service  in  India,  and  his 
pretty,  young  wife.  The  Dowager  of  Endon  and 
her  middle-aged  son,  the  Duke,  and  Stephanof  An- 
dreyvitch,  holding  the  center  of  the  floor  with  little 
Kathleen  Bennet  sitting  close  to  where  he  stood, 
her  eyes  fixed  in  awed  surprise  upon  his  face;  her 
white  fingers  toying  nervously  with  a  small  silver 
crucifix  which  hung  about  her  neck. 

Whether  or  not  Andreyvitch  heard  the  man  an 
nounce  Gregory  Manners,  whether  or  not  he  saw 
him  standing  there  in  the  doorway,  whether  or  not 
he  purposely  went  on  with  what  he  was  then  saying 
was  a  subject  for  debate  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"Faith?"  Andreyvitch's  low,  insidious  voice  car 
ried  well.  "But  there's  no  such  thing.  Can't  you 
realize  that  all  this  sickly  sentimentality  is  nothing 


i98  THE  SCARECROW 

but  dogmatic  idiocy  on  your  parts?  Must  you  all 
drivel  your  catechism  at  every  turn  of  the  road? 
Must  you  close  your  eyes  to  filth,  to  vice,  to  every 
thing  you  think  outside  of  your  smug  English  minds? 
Don't  you  know  you're  a  part  of  it?  That  each 
one  of  you  is  part  of  the  lowest,  rottenest — " 

It  was  then  that,  unable  to  stand  it  a  second 
longer,  Gregory  Manners  came  into  the  room. 

"I — I  most  sincerely  hope  I'm  not  interrupting, 
Andreyvitch — but — are  you  speaking  of  those  things 
— again?" 

The  quiet,  polite  tone  was  full  of  subtle  signifi 
cance.  And  although  they  could  not  have  known 
what  Manners  actually  meant,  they  all  of  them  rec 
ognized  an  emphatic  significance.  And  not  one  of 
those  people  present  could  overlook  the  peculiar 
stress  which  he  had  laid  upon  that  slow-drawled 
"again." 

Andreyvitch  turned  sharply;  his  face  for  a  second 
drawn  into  a  hideous,  ghastly  grimace. 

"It  is  no  interruption,  Mr.  Manners."  He  was 
trying  hard  to  resume  his  habitual  insouciance.  "But 
what  do  you  mean,  eh?  What  is  this?" 

He  stood  where  he  was,  did  Manners.  His  face 
was  almost  expressionless. 

"I  think  you  know  what  I  mean.  But  see  here. 
I'll  repeat  it  for  you,  if  .you  like.  Listen  this  time. 
Are — you — speaking — of — those — things — again?" 

The  Russian  was  livid. 

And  for  an  infinitesimal  fraction  of  time  it  seemed 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TRlu          199 

to  those  watching  him  that  he  was  cowed;  terrify- 
ingly  cowed. 

"Your  humor,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  en 
deavoring  to  pass  the  thing  off  as  flippantly  as  pos 
sible;  "your  humor  is  bizarre,  Mr.  Manners.  I 
spoke  but  of  that  which  we  all  know  exists.  Surely 
there  is  no  harm  in  speaking  of  what  we  all  recog 


nize!' 


Manners'  voice  rang  out  clearly,  in  surprising 
sternness. 

"We  all  know  what  exists  in  this  world.  We 
know  that  greater  than  all  else  is  faith.  As  long  as 
you  speak  before  those  who  know  what  real  good 
ness  is,  who  believe  in  it,  there  is  no  harm  done! 
I  hardly  think  this  is  the  first  time  you've  tried  to 
impress  evil  on  people — The  reason  for  that's  easily 
understood.  But,  thank  God."  His  tone  vibrated 
with  earnestness.  "Thank  God,  you  can  do  nothing 
here!" 

The  Russian  turned  on  him.  His  usual  suave 
manner  had  left  him.  His  words  were  little  else 
than  an  angry  snarl. 

"You  know  me  well — very  well,  indeed,  my  Eng 
lish  friend.  You  who  have  met  me — is  it  not  once 
— perhaps,  eh,  twice?" 

Manners  laughed.  A  laugh  that  had  no  sound 
of  mirth  in  it. 

"I've  met  you  again  and  again.  And  you  know 
it !  And  there's  something  else  we  have  to  settle 
for — And  you  know  that,  too — Mr. — Mr.  Andrey- 
vitch!" 


200  THE  SCARECROW 

And  then  Gregory  Manners  turned  to  Mrs. 
Broughton-Hollins. 

"Good  afternoon,'*  he  said,  quietly. 

A  bit  flustered,  the  hostess  got  hastily  to  her  feet. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come — You  know  every  one, 
don't  you,  Gregory?  You'll  have  your  tea  here 
with  us?"  And  below  her  breath,  she  added:  "You 
mustn't  be  too  hard  on  Andreyvitch,  Gregory.  These 
Russians — well,  they're  all  a  bit  primitive." 

He  went  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  men.  He 
kissed  Kathleen's  hand  and  told  her  how  pretty  she 
looked.  He  let  Mrs.  Broughton-Hollins  pour  his 
tea,  and  he  ignored  the  Russian  completely,  the 
while  he  watched  Kathleen  with  a  strange  fore 
boding,  as  her  eyes  flickered  again  and  again  over 
Andreyvitch's  face. 

Things  did  not  go  very  smoothly  during  the  next 
two  days.  Naturally  they  all  did  the  usual.  Golf 
and  riding,  bridge  and  dancing  in  the  evenings,  and 
shooting.  Andreyvitch  was  passionately  fond  of 
shooting.  Manners  had  never  so  much  as  killed 
a  sparrow  in  all  his  life. 

There  was  an  undercurrent  of  uneasiness  which 
permeated  the  entire  household.  It  was  not  par 
ticularly  because  of  Andreyvitch  and  Manners.  It, 
was  something  that  not  one  of  them  could  have  ex 
plained  if  they  had  been  put  to  it. 

The  first  day  Mrs.  Galvin  told  her  husband  that 
she  would  be  glad  when  it  was  all  over.  And  al 
though  unexpressed  that  was  the  general  sentiment. 

Not   that    Andreyvitch    or    Manners    made    the 


THE  \\OOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      201 

others  uncomfortable.  After  Gregory's  first  out 
burst,  and  now  that  they  were  under  the  same  roof, 
it  rather  seemed  that  the  Russian  avoided  Manners. 
And  Manners — He  watched  carefully  every  move 
ment,  every  little  turn  or  twist  of  Andneyvitch's.  At 
that  time  it  was  as  if  he  were  trying  to  substantiate 
some  memory  of  his;  to  substantiate  it  deliberately 
and  positively. 

And  then  because  of  Andreyvitch's  unceasing  at 
tentions  to  Kathleen  Bennet,  word  went  round 
among  the  various  members  of  the  house-party  that 
Gregory  and  Kathleen  had  quarreled. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  when  Manners  came 
upon  Kathleen  walking  alone  in  the  rose-garden. 

'Til  be  jolly  well  glad,"  he  told  her,  "when  we 
get  back  to  town  again." 

"Aren't  you  having  a  good  time,  Greg?" 

"How  can  I?" 

"But  you  really  needed  the  rest — You  haven't 
been  looking  any  too  fit,  you  know.  I  thought  this 
would  be  quite  nice  for  you,  Greg." 

He  let  loose  at  that. 

"If  you  must  have  it,  Kathleen.  I  can't  stand 
you  and  that  bounder  in  the  same  house.  That's 
the  truth  of  it,  old  girl!" 

She  avoided  answering  him  directly. 

"It's  such  a  ripping  place  here,  Gregory.  All — 
that  is,  all  but  those  forests  over  there.  The  gar 
dener  told  me  his  grandfather  used  to  call  them 
the  Wood  of  Living  Trees.  He  couldn't  tell  me 
why — only — Isn't  it  a  strange  name,  Greg?" 


202  THE  SCARECROW 

She  wound  up  lamely.  Evidently  she  had  not  said 
what  she  started  out  to  say. 

"Not  so  awfully,"  he  answered  absent-mindedly. 
"It's  probably  an  old,  old  name.  They  stick  to 
places,  you  know." 

"But  the  woods,"  she  went  on  slowly,  "they're 
so  dark  and  mysterious  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I've  wanted  to  explore  them  ever  since  I've  been 
here; — that  is — that's  not  altogether  true,  Gregory. 
They  frighten  me  a  good  bit — especially  at  night. 
I  get  into  quite  a  funk  about  it — at  night.  I  say, 
you  wouldn't  call  me  a  coward,  would  you,  Greg 
ory?" 

"Of  course  not,  Kathleen.  What  utter  non 
sense!" 

"But  if  I  weren't  afraid,"  she  continued  half  to 
herself.  "If  I  weren't  really  terrified,  I'd  go  into 
the  woods  and  show  myself  there's  nothing  to  be 
frightened  of,  wouldn't  I?" 

"You  most  certainly  would  not!"  He  said.  "If 
you  did,  you'd  be  sure  to  lose  your  way,  old  girl." 

For  a  second  they  walked  in  silence. 

"D'you  ever  feel" — she  turned  to  face  him — 
"d'you  ever  feel  you'd  been  in  a  place  before — and 
yet  you  knew  you'd  never  been  there  at  all?" 

"No,"  he  told  her  a  bit  too  abruptly. 

"You  needn't  be  so  stuffy,  Gregory,"  she  mur 
mured. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  He  caught  her  and  held  her  in  his 
arms.  "Can't  you  see  that  it's  all  like  a  horrible 
nightmare  ?  Can't  you  see  that  I'm  not  able  to  know 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      203 

positively  until  it's  actually  happened — and  then — 
oh,  my  God ! — If  it  should  be  too  late !" 

Her  hands  clenched  rigidly  on  his  shoulders. 

"Gregory,"  she  whispered,  "tell  me,  dear — you've 
been  so  strange  of  late — so  terribly  unlike  yourself. 
Tell  me,  dear,  what  is  it?" 

"Nothing,  dearest  girl — nothing." 

"Oh,  but  there  is  something!"  She  exclaimed  pas 
sionately.  "I've  known  it  right  along.  I  haven't 
asked  because  I  thought  you'd  tell  me.  Why — one 
must  be  blind  not  to  see  how  you've  changed !  You're 
— you're  just  a  skeleton  of  yourself,  Gregory."  She 
paused  for  breath.  "Can't  you  bring  yourself  to  tell 
me — can't  you,  dear?" 

"If  I  only  knew,"  he  muttered,  "if  I  only  knew — 
for  certain." 

Her  eyes  were  lifted  to  his.  The  brows  met  in  a 
puckering  frown  above  them. 

"Gregory — that  time  you  were  away — for  a 
whole  fortnight — did  anything  happen,  then — 
Gregory?" 

"Did  anything  happen?"  She  had  surprised  him 
into  it.  "Good  God,  did  anything  happen?  Why, 
you  don't  know  what  it  was  like — You  couldn't 
know!  If  they'd  told  me  such  a  thing  were  possible 
— I  shouldn't  have  believed  it !  I  wanted  to  think — 
I  wanted  to  work  the  thing  out  for  myself — so  I 
went  down  there  for  a  rest.  Rest — " 

He  broke  off  then,  but  she  stood  very  silently  be 
side  him  and  presently  he  went  on  again. 

"Have  you  ever  felt  you  were  going  mad,  Kath- 


204  THE  SCARECROW 

leen?  Raving,  tearing — mad?  That's  how  I  felt 
for  two  weeks.  I  thought  it  would  never  end.  And 
all  the  time — why,  I  couldn't  think!  I  couldn't  do 
anything  but  feel  that  something  was  driving  me  to 
do  something — something  tremendous,  as  if  the  very 
force  of  my  own  life  were  making  me  do  this  thing 
that  I  had  been  sent  into  life  to  do.  And,  Kath 
leen/'  his  voice  sank  to  a  hoarse  whisper,  "I  couldn't 
understand — what — it — was !" 

She  put  her  arm  about  his  neck  and  drew  his  head 
down  until  her  cheek  rested  on  his. 

"I  couldn't  think  a  thought,"  he  muttered.  "I'd 
laid  myself  open  to  the  thing.  It  just  swept  over 
me  and  through  me.  It  saturated  me  with  the  im 
pulse  to  do  the  thing  I  had  come  into  the  world  to 
do!  The  one  thing  that  stood  out — was — the  feel 
ing  that  it  would  have  to  be  done — soon."  He 
paused  for  a  moment.  "And  then  one  afternoon  at 
the  club — when  I'd  been  back  a  day  or  two — some 
thing  came  to  me — a  sudden  knowledge  of — well,  of 
rottenness — that — that  might  have  to  be  done  away 
with — as  if  that  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Only 
I  don't  know,  Kathleen — not — as  yet." 

He  looked  at  her  then  and  he  saw  her  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears.  He  thought  he  had  frightened 
her.  He  waited  until  he  had  himself  well  in  hand 
before  he  spoke  again. 

"Kathleen,  always  believe  in  the  good  of  things, 
dearest  girl.  And,  Kathleen,"  the  words  that  came 
to  him  were  almost  as  great  a  surprise  to  him  as  they 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      205 

were  to  her.  "Never  leave  that  crucifix  off  your 
neck.  Promise  me,  dear?" 

"I  promise." 

A  little  later  they  went  in  to  tea. 

He  got  to  bed  that  night  with  a  great  feeling  of 
relief  that  in  the  morning  they  would  all  be  back  in 
town.  He  had  thought  something  would  happen. 
He  had  not  known  what,  but  the  feeling  had  been 
there.  He  did  not  mind  admitting  it  to  himself  now, 
and  he  did  not  mind  acknowledging  that  he  could 
not  understand  how  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  had 
been  avoided.  Unformed,  undefinable,  it  had  been 
powerfully  imminent.  He  fell  asleep  wondering 
what  it  was  that  he  had  expected. 

The  full  moon  was  streaming  into  the  room  when 
he  awoke. 

He  was  on  his  feet  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  in 
a  flash. 

He  could  have  sworn  a  cry  had  awakened  him.  A 
woman's  voice  calling  for  help — A  woman's  voice 
that  had  been  strangely  like  Kathleen's. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  A  cloud 
had  drifted  across  the  surface  of  the  full  moon.  The 
whole  garden  lay  blotched  with  shadows.  And  there 
beyond  the  garden  was  the  forest.  Black,  sinister, 
mysterious.  The  dark  depth  of  it  sickened  him. 
Kathleen  had  spoken  only  that  afternoon  of  the  for 
est.  The  Wood  of  Living  Trees.  She  had  told  him 
it  was  called  The  Wood  of  Living  Trees. 

In  Heaven's  name,  where  did  the  horrible,  appal 
ling  significance  of  the  Wood  of  Living  Trees  come 


206  THE  SCARECROW 

from?  What  was  this  ghastly  knowledge  that 
sought  for  recognition  in  his  own  mind?  What  did 
the  Wood  of  Living  Trees  mean  to  him? 

And  then  he  heard  the  faint,  far  cry — 

His  shoes — his  trousers — hatless  and  coatless  he 
was  out  in  the  garden. 

The  cloud  had  passed  from  off  the  face  of  the 
moon.  The  garden  lay  in  the  bright  moonlight; 
even  the  separate  flowers  were  visible.  Beyond  was 
the  sinister  depth  of  that  black  forest. 

He  felt  it  then.  Sensed  the  insidious  evil  of 
something  that  emanated  from  the  wood.  Some 
thing  which  lurked  there  beneath  the  trees — some 
thing  which  clung  to  the  tall  trunks  of  them — some 
thing  which  rose  and  expanded  among  the  leaves  and 
reached  out  to  him  in  evil  menace.  And  at  some 
time  he  had  felt  it  all  before. 

He  ran  quickly  through  the  garden;  over  the 
rosebeds ;  crashing  through  the  high  box-wood  hedge 
at  the  farther  end;  and  then  into  the  forest. 

His  feet  sank  into  the  moss-covered  slime.  The 
trees  were  gigantic.  He  felt  as  if  they  were  closing 
in  on  him.  Their  branches  stretched  out  like  living 
arms,  hindering  his  progress.  Thorns  caught  at  his 
clothing,  at  his  hands,  his  face.  He  had  a  vague, 
half-formed  thought  that  the  forest  was  advancing 
to  achieve  his  destruction.  His  only  clear  determi 
nation  was  to  protect  his  eyes. 

He  knew  then,  he  had  always  known,  that  the 
wood  was  some  live,  evil  thing — the  Wood  of  Liv- 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      207 

ing  Trees;  and  that  it  hid  the  presence  of  something 
infinitely  more  foul. 

A  queer  odor  assailed  his  nostrils.  An  odor  that 
was  not  only  of  the  damp,  dank  underbrush;  an  odor 
that,  in  its  putridness,  almost  suffocated  him. 

Breathless  and  half  crazed  with  an  unexplainable 
dread,  he  fought  the  forest,  beating  his  way  with 
his  naked  hands  through  the  dense  bushes. 

And  then  he  heard  a  sound.  The  first  sound  he 
had  heard  since  entering  the  forest.  It  was  quite 
distinct.  Vibrating  loudly  through  the  deadly  still- 
r.ess  of  the  wood,  came  the  steady  patter  of  a  four- 
footed  thing. 

The  next  instant  something  leaped  out  of  the 
darkness — something  huge  and  strong  that  tried  to 
catch  at  his  neck.  He  fought  for  his  life  then. 
Fought  this  horrible  thing  that  had  been  concealed 
by  the  forest.  Fought  with  the  darkness  shutting 
down  on  him  and  that  putrid  odor  smothering  his 
breathing.  Panting  and  blinded,  he  and  the  thing 
swayed  to  and  fro,  crashing  against  the  tree-trunks, 
springing  again  and  again  at  each  other  from  the 
tangled  underbrush.  He  never  knew  how  long  he 
struggled  there  in  the  blackness  of  the  wood.  It 
might  have  been  hours;  it  might  have  been  minutes. 
And  then  he  had  the  beast  by  its  great,  hairy  throat. 
The  infuriated  snarling  grew  weaker — 

He  felt  the  body  become  rigid. 

Silence. 

He  threw  the  thing  from  him. 

He  staggered  farther  into  the  wood. 


208  THE  SCARECROW 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  came  upon  Kath 
leen. 

She  was  walking  uncertainly  toward  him. 

The  moonlight  trickled  clear  and  yellow  through 
the  branches  now. 

He  could  see  her  lips  moving — moving — He  knew 
that  she  was  praying.  Her  eyes  looked  out  at  him 
dazed  and  unseeing;  and  in  her  right  hand  that  was 
reached  before  her  he  saw  the  little,  silver  crucifix. 

He  did  not  dare  speak  to  her.  He  was  afraid. 
He  sank  back  against  the  bushes  and  let  her  pass. 
The  moonlight  flooded  the  place  with  its  haunting 
golden  light.  A  strange  feeling  of  relief  came  over 
him  and  with  it  a  vast  calm.  And  very  quietly  he 
followed  her. 

She  went  a  bit  further.  And  she  came  to  that 
spot  where  he  had  killed  the  thing.  He  heard  her 
shriek.  The  wild  cry  that  had  awakened  him. 

"The  wolf — Gregory — the  wolf!" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  as  she  fainted.  Then 
he  looked  down. 

There  at  his  feet  lay  the  body  of  the  Russian, 
Stephanof  Andreyvitch. 

This  will  I  prove.  At  some  unknown  time  will  I 
show  that  in  this  world  a  certain  devilish  influence 
worketh  most  evilly  against  the  high  Heavens  and 
the  good  in  man.  I  do  confess  the  knowing  of  this 
to  be  true,  and  many  times  and  oft  have  I  convinced 
myself  that  this  Satanic  thing  hath  the  power  to  be 
come  incarnate. 

In  the  morning  I  hana.    God,  the  Father,  Christ  t 


THE  WOOD  OF  LIVING  TREES      209 

the  Son,  come  unto  me  in  purgatory  that  I  may  ful 
fill  my  sacred  oath  and  that  the  soul  of  her  I  love 
may  find  peace  within  the  seven  golden  gates  of 
Heaven. 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN 

HE  had  gotten  as  far  as  the  cross-roads.  He 
could  not  go  on.  His  feet  ached;  his  eyes 
hurt  with  the  incessant  effort  of  trying  to  penetrate 
the  obliterating  dark.  Where  the  three  roads  met 
he  stopped. 

Above  him  the  black,  unlighted  skies.  Before 
him  mile  upon  mile  of  deep,  shadow-stained  plain. 
Somewhere  beyond  the  plain,  at  the  foot  of  the  hills, 
lay  Charvel.  Jans  was  waiting  for  him  at  Charvel. 
His  orders  to  meet  Jans  were  urgent;  but  now  he 
could  not  go  further.  Jans  would  have  to  wait  until 
morning,  when,  by  the  light  of  day,  he  could  again 
find  the  way  which  he  had  so  completely  lost  in  the 
night. 

He  sank  down  at  the  base  of  the  crucifix.  It 
loomed  in  a  ghostly,  gray  mass  against  the  muddy 
white  of  the  wind-driven  clouds.  He  pulled  his  coat 
collar  up  about  his  ears.  His  eyes  were  raised  to 
where  he  thought  to  see  the  dimly  defined  Christ 
figure;  but  the  pitch  black  gloom  drenched  opaquely 
over  everything.  There  was  something  mysterious; 
something  remote,  about  the  cross.  He  imagined 
peasants  kneeling  before  it  in  awed  reverence,  gab 
bling  their  prayers.  The  ignorance  of  such  idolatry! 
Their  prayers  had  not  been  proof  against  the  ene- 

213 


2i4  THE  SCARECROW 

mies'  bullets;  and  still  they  prayed.  Tired  as  he 
was,  he  laughed  aloud. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

He  started  to  his  feet.  The  voice,  quiet  and  deep, 
came  from  directly  behind  him.  He  had  not  con 
ceived  the  possibility  of  any  human  thing  lurking  so 
dangerously  near.  He  peered  blindly  through  the 
obscuring  dark. 

"Who's  there?"  He  questioned,  his  fingers  invol 
untarily  closing  tautly  about  the  butt  of  the  revolver 
at  his  belt. 

"You,  too,  ask  questions,  eh?"  The  voice  went  on. 
"I  can  almost  make  out  the  shape  of  you.  Do  you 
see  me?" 

It  seemed  to  him  then  that  by  carefully  tracing 
the  sound  of  the  voice  he  could  dimly  define  the 
outline  of  a  man's  form  lying  close  within  the 
murked,  smudging  shadow  of  the  crucifix. 

"Yes,  I  think  now  I  almost  see  you."  His  tone  was 
anything  but  assured.  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"What  is  there  to  do  but  sleep?"  The  muttered 
words  were  half  defiant.  "Name  of  a  dog!  it  was 
your  laughter  that  woke  me.  Why  did  you  laugh?" 

"If  I  weren't  so  tired,  I  might  explain  it  to  you." 
He  hesitated  a  second,  playing  for  time.  "I  was 
thinking — drawing  up  a  mental  picture  of  the  ig 
norant  peasant  praying  here  before  your  back-rest." 

"My  back-rest?"  The  man's  voice  was  sleepily 
puzzled.  "It's  this  cross  you  mean,  eh?  Well, 
never  mind,  my  fine  fellow.  It  has  comfort — And 
that's  something  to  be  grateful  for." 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN  215 

"Not  the  sort  of  splintery  comfort  I'd  choose." 

He  wondered  what  sort  of  a  man  this  was.  He 
was  used  to  judging  men  at  sight.  He  cursed  in 
wardly  the  unlighted  night. 

"I'm  not  spending  my  time  out  here  from  choice — 
I  can  tell  you  that!  This  does  for  me  well  enough. 
I  told  you,  didn't  I,  that  I  was  asleep  until  your 
stupid  laughing  woke  me?  Sacre,  why  did  you  have 
to  laugh  ?  What's  the  joke,  eh  ?" 

"Perhaps  it's  my  natural  humor;  even  when  I'm 
dead  tired."  He  grinned  to  himself.  He  had 
reached  his  decision.  This  sleepy  fool  sounded  safe 
enough;  besides  the  question  itself  was  non-commit 
tal.  He  asked  it:  "Say,  do  you  know  the  way  to 
Charvel?" 

"You're  miles  from  Charvel,  my  friend.  You've 
surely  lost  all  sense  of  direction." 

"Right.  I  don't  know  where  I'm  at.  It's  this 
damned  blackness.  Never  saw  such  an  infernal 
night.  Started  to  walk  from  Chalet  Corneille  this 
afternoon.  Didn't  count  on  its  getting  dark  so  early. 
Then  I  lost  my  way.  Been  wandering  about  for 
hours.  Probably  in  a  circle.  And  now  I'm  half 
dead.  God!  I'm  all  in!" 

"It's  almost  morning.  If  you  wait  for  the  light, 
you'll  not  miss  your  road  again;  but  I  shouldn't 
counsel  you  to  try  to  find  it  till  dawn." 

He  wondered  if  he  dared  to  go  to  sleep  with  this 
man  beside  him.  There  were  the  papers  carefully 
concealed  in  his  right  boot-leg;  the  papers  Jans  was 
waiting  for.  The  man  sounded  plain-spoken  and 


2i6  THE  SCARECROW 

courteous  enough,  considering  he  had  been  aroused 
from  supposedly  sound  slumber.  He  felt  he  wasn't 
a  soldier.  That  is,  he  couldn't  be  one  of  Their 
men.  He  knew  what  Their  men  were  like.  Despite 
Their  world  reputation  he  had  heard  they  were  any 
thing  but  courteous.  But  then  one  never  knew.  And 
anyway  hadn't  this  man  spoken  to  him  in  irreproach 
able  French?  Still,  French  was  the  language  of  the 
country  and  his  own  gift  of  languages  was  rather 
pronounced.  Of  course  it  tended  to  make  him  a  bit 
suspicious;  but  logically  he  couldn't  lay  much  stress 
on  it.  If  only  he  had  gotten  beyond  Their  lines  be 
fore  night,  everything  would  have  been  all  right. 
As  it  was  he  must  have  been  wandering  round  and 
round,  covering  the  self-same  ground  and  getting  no 
nearer  to  Charvel,  where  Jans  was  waiting  for  him 
and  the  papers. 

Taking  all  in  all  into  consideration,  he  decided  it 
best  not  to  let  himself  sleep;  even  if  the  staying 
awake  was  not  an  easy  plan  for  a  man  utterly  tired. 
He  would  have  to  do  it  somehow  or  other. 

"You're  a  native  of  these  parts?"  He  asked,  try 
ing  to  keep  any  trace  of  speculation  as  to  what  the 
man  really  was  out  of  his  voice. 

"Sacre,  but  I  thought  you  were  about  to  sleep." 
The  tone  sounded  as  if  it  might  be  angry.  "I  as 
sure  you  it  will  soon  be  morning." 

"Don't  feel  like  sleeping.  If  you  don't  want  to 
talk  I  can  easily  be  quiet." 

"No — no!  It  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I've 
had  my  forty  winks.  We'll  talk,  if  you  want.  Not 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN  217 

that  I  was  ever  one  for  doing  much  talking.  I'm 
too  little  of  a  fool  for  that — still — Why  don't  you 
lean  back  here  beside  me  against  this  beam?" 

He  wriggled  backwards  and  propped  his  droop 
ing  head  stiffly  against  the  wood  of  the  cross. 

"I  can't  see  you  at  all."  He  closed  his  eyes;  it 
wasn't  worth  the  throbbing  strain  of  it  to  try  to  pene 
trate  the  obliterating,  dripping  darkness.  He 
couldn't  do  it.  "I'd  like  to  see  you." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you,  my  friend.  But  what  good 
are  wishes,  eh?  Do  you  say  you  live  at  Chalet 
Corneille?" 

On  the  instant  he  was  alert. 

uWhy  do  you  ask?" 

"Curiosity,  my  friend.  I  know  of  some  good  peo 
ple  there  by  name  of  Fornier.  Perhaps  they  might 
be  friends  of  yours." 

"Don't  think  I  know  them."  He  paused  to  col 
lect  his  wits.  He  had  been  startled  by  the  man's 
suave  question.  He  wondered  if  he  was  going  to 
try  to  trap  him.  He  thought  he  couldn't  have  done 
it  more  neatly  himself.  This  job  of  stalling  when  he 
was  almost  too  tired  to  think  wasn't  an  easy  thing 
to  do.  He  called  upon  his  imagination.  "I'm  an 
artist,"  he  lied  smoothly.  "Sent  over  here* to  paint 
war  scenes.  I  couldn't  miss  the  chance  of  a  ran-* 
sacked  village.  Its  picturesque  value  is  tremendous. 
I've  just  finished  my  painting  of  Chalet  Corneille." 

He  waited  tentatively.  Surely  if  the  man  were 
just  some  simple,  sleepy  fool  he'd  say  something 
now  to  give  an  inkling  of  what  he  was. 


2i 8  THE  SCARECROW 

"One  week  ago  it  was  splashed  in  blood — Sol 
diers  too,  in  their  way,  are  artists,"  was  all  he  said. 

"Then  you're  not  a  soldier?'1 

"What  made  you  think  I  was?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are,"  he  answered  truth 
fully;  and  then  quite  frankly  he  came  back  with  the 
man's  own  question.  "Did  you  say  you  lived  in 
Chalet  Corneille?" 

"No — I  asked  if  you  knew  people  there  by  name 
of  Former?" 

"Mighty  few  folk  left  there  now."  The  pic 
ture  of  the  razed  town  came  before  him.  "Some 
old  men  waiting  for  the  lost  ones  to  come  back 
to  them;  some  young  children  and  three  or  four 
sisters  of  charity.  And  then  this  morning  I  saw 
a  woman — she  wasn't  much  more  than  a  girl — she 
had  a  face  you  couldn't  forget.  They  told  me  about 
her  at  the  inn,  where  I  breakfasted." 

"Tell  me,"  the  man  suggested  grudgingly;  "we're 
comfortable  enough.  Dawn's  a  long  way  off,  and  I 
suppose  you  want  to  talk." 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell.  She  left  the  town;  was 
driven  out  of  it  with  the  others.  Unlike  them,  she 
came  back.  God  knows  what  she  wanted  to  do  that 
for !  They  told  me  of  her  goodness ;  and  her  beauty 
and  her  kindness.  They  dwelt  on  it  at  great  length. 
Don't  know  as  I  blame  them  for  harping  on  all  that. 
And  now  it  seems  the  spirit  of  the  war  has  lit  upon 
even  her.  She's  changed — they  say  she's  absolutely 
no  good  these  days.  Steals — lies — has  done  every 
thing,  as  near  as  I  can  make  out,  excepting  commit 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN  219 

murder.  But  you  ought  to  have  seen  her  face.  I'll 
wager  that  once  seen,  it  would  rise  to  haunt  any  one. 
I  don't  care  who  it'd  be.  It  was  beautiful — but — " 

He  felt  the  man  look  up  at  the  sky  and  the 
ghostly,  gray  mass  of  the  crucifix  stretching  across  it. 

"Strange  creatures,  these  peasant  people. "  The 
man's  words  were  speculative.  "Dumb  kind  of 
beasts — these  soil-tillers — the  best  of  them.  Got 
nothing  in  their  lives  but  work  and  religion.  Don't 
know  as  I  blame  you  for  laughing  when  you  looked 
up  there.  Sacre,  but  there  is  nothing  real  about  re 
ligion  to  me!" 

"You're  right.1'  He  stifled  a  yawn.  "All  that 
sort  of  thing  went  out  of  the  world  years  ago. 
Thinking  people  aren't  religious  nowadays.  It 
doesn't  give  them  enough  food  for  logical  thought. 
It's  all  too  palpably  obvious  and  absurd  for  an  in 
telligent  person  to  bother  with." 

"Rather  a  strange  view  for  an  artist,  my  friend, 
is  it  not?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Thought  you  fellows  traded  on  the  beauty  of 
faith,  the  talk  of  priests,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Good  Lord,  no."  His  voice  was  energetic 
enough  now.  He  was  becoming  interested.  "All 
this  belief  in  God  and  man  and  the  innate  good,  and 
the  rest  of  it,  is  tommyrot — That's  what  it  is !  And 
the  soul  within  you — and  the  teachings  of  Christ" — 
he  paused  to  regain  his  breath.  "We'd  know  those 
things  all  right  enough,  if  they  were  real.  We'd 
see  them,  wouldn't  we,  if  they  were  real?  They'd 


220  THE  SCARECROW 

happen — They  couldn't  help  but  happen — every  day. 
But  they  don't,  and  so  they're  just  talked  about.  I 
tell  you  if  there  were  such  things,  we'd  know  it!" 

"Yes — yes — Surely  we  would  see  it — some  time." 

"I  haven't  had  more  than  the  average  University 
education,"  he  went  on.  "But  I've  seen  men  and 
women,  and  I  know  that  some  of  them  are  bad,  and 
some  of  them  are  good,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
If  a  man  wants  to  be  a  liar — he'll  lie.  What's  go 
ing  to  make  him  tell  the  truth,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"It  doesn't  sound  like  artistic  idealism,  this  talk 
of  yours." 

"What  do  I  care  for  any  kind  of  idealism? 
There's  too  much  of  the  poppycock — too  many  of 
those  long-haired,  long-winded  donkeys  playing  the 
miniature  creator  for  my  taste.  Lord,  but  I'd  like 
to  see  an  army  of  them  in  the  field!" 

"You  speak  like  a  soldier,  my  friend." 

"I'm  proud,  sir,  of  being  a  soldier!" 

In  a  flash  he  realized  what  he  had  said.  Be 
neath  his  breath  he  cursed  furiously.  Never  before 
had  he  been  guilty  of  such  blatant  stupidity.  A  sud 
den  anger  welled  within  him  against  this  man  who 
had  caught  him  in  his  lie.  Yet  the  man  seemed  harm 
less  and  indifferent  enough.  Perhaps  he  could  still 
get  out  of  it.  What  in  the  name  of  heaven  had 
drawn  the  truth  from  him?  He  glanced  up  at  the 
crucifix  and  his  cursing  abruptly  stopped.  He  fell 
to  wondering  if  he  had  better  strike  out  again  in 
the  dark.  He  couldn't  tell  who  the  man  was,  and 
he  had  the  papers  to  guard.  Dawn  wasn't  a  long 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN  221 

way  off.     He  wondered  if  he  ought  to  chance  it. 

"See  here" — the  man's  voice  caught  in  on  his  train 
of  thought.  "I  know  what's  going  through  your 
head.  You  didn't  want  me  to  know  that  you  were  a 
soldier.  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you,  either.  But 
I'm  one,  too.  Only  I'm  not  one  of  Them;  not  one 
of  that  blood-thirsty,  blood-drunk  canaille.  You're 
not  either.  I  knew  the  minute  I  heard  you  speak. 
And  see  here,  I  pretended  at  first  that  I  didn't  want 
to  talk.  But  it  wasn't  true.  I  was  starving  for  a 
word  with  one  of  my  own  kind.  I  told  you  I  was 
comfortable,  didn't  I?  I  told  you  I  was  asleep? 
Well — I  lied.  I've  been  writhing  here  for  hours. 
I'm  in  agony.  My  leg's  shot  off — that's  what  They 
did  to  me.  I've  been  lying  in  this  place  for  a  day 
and  a  half.  A  peasant  stopped  to  pray  here  to-night. 
He  gave  me  some  water;  but  he  was  afraid  to  touch 
me."  A  sob  vibrated  hoarsely  in  the  man's  throat. 
"My  brother,  I  want  your  hand." 

Without  hesitation  he  put  out  his  hand,  his  fingers 
fumbling  over  the  hard  earth,  until  at  last  they  found 
and  grasped  the  man's  hand. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do?"  He  asked. 

"No,  it's  too  dark.  We  must  wait  for  the  dawn. 
Then  if  you'll  help  me  along  the  road  a  bit" — His 
voice  trailed  off  into  silence. 

So  they  sat  there. 

"There's  some  one  coming,"  he  said. 

He  felt  the  man  try  to  struggle  to  a  sitting  posi 
tion. 

"No  use,"  he  moaned.     "I  couldn't  see  through 


222  THE  SCARECROW 

the  dark,  anyway.  Sacre,  didn't  I  try  it  before, 
when  you  came  along?" 

Breathlessly  they  waited.  There  was  nothing 
pleasant  about  this  meeting  people  one  couldn't  see. 
It  was  just  luck  that  the  man  beside  him  hadn't 
been  one  of  Them.  He  wondered  if  the  approach 
ing  person  would  stop  before  the  crucifix  or  would 
go  on. 

The  footsteps  came  nearer  and  nearer.  Louder 
and  louder  they  grew  until  the  sound  of  them  echoed 
clatteringly  through  the  silence  of  the  night.  Then 
sudden  deafening  stillness. 

As  yet  he  could  make  out  no  form.  He  wondered 
what  was  happening.  Slowly  he  realized  that  the 
gloom-merged  mass  of  the  crucifix  had  been  seen 
and  that  the  feet  were  coming  toward  it.  A  long 
half  minute  and  then  something  soft  and  cold 
brushed  his  cheek.  A  quick,  half-smothered  cry. 
A  woman  had  reached  him  with  her  outstretched 
hands.  Her  fingers  had  touched  his  face. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  She  whispered.  "Then  I  am  not 
alone?  Mon  Dieu!  Who  are  you?" 

He  answered  her. 

"I've  lost  my  way.     I'm  waiting  for  the  dawn." 

"You  will  not  hurt  me?"  Her  whimpered  words 
betrayed  her  fear.  "You  will  let  me  stay  to  wait 
the  daylight  with  you?" 

"That  makes  three  of  us,"  he  said,  "waiting  for 
morning." 

"Non — non;  how  is  it  then  three?" 

"My  brother  here — you — and — I." 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN  223 

"Mon  Dieu!  Such  a  darkness.  Tell  me,  it  is  a 
sign  of  luck,  is  it  not,  to  meet  with  two  brothers?" 

"Well,"  his  tone  was  apologetic.  "We're  not 
blood-brothers — just — "  He  hesitated. 

"Ah!"  She  breathed  softly.  "Is  it,  as  the  cure 
says,  'a  Brotherhood  of  man'?" 

He  could  not  explain  to  himself  why  he  should  so 
resent  her  comparing  him  to  her  priest. 

"It  is  a  brotherhood  of  understanding,"  he  said. 
"It  is  because  we  are  friends." 

"Friends?"  She  questioned. 

"Of  course,"  he  stated  emphatically.  And  at  the 
same  time  he  wondered  at  his  own  vehemence.  Why 
should  he  call  this  man,  whom  he  could  not  even  see, 
his  friend?  "Surely  you  do  not  think  that  I  could 
sit  here  in  the  dark,  holding  my  enemy  by  the  hand?" 

"But  no,"  she  muttered  as  though  to  herself. 
"No  hands  are  given  in  this  time  of  war.  No  hands 
but  the  hands  of  hate." 

For  the  first  time  the  man  spoke. 

"Hate  has  made  men  of  us.  Sacre,  but  is  there 
anything  greater  than  hate?" 

"Mon  Dieu!  It  is  all  so  cruel — this  hate  that 
has  crippled  our  men.  Look  you,  you  two  brothers 
— I  would  avenge  them  as  you  avenge  them,  but 
voila — there  is  so  little — so  pitifully  little  that  I 
can  do!" 

"Will  you  sit  beside  me?"  The  man  asked  gently. 
"I'd  move,  if  I  could,  but  They've  shot  off  my  leg, 
and  moving  isn't  easy." 

"The  barbarians  have  caught  you  too?"  She  sank 


224  THE  SCARECROW 

to  her  knees  beside  them.  "How  I  loathe  Them! 
Ah,  how  I  detest  Them !  They  burned  my  home — 
They  drove  me  out  of  Chalet  Corneille — my  father 
and  my  mother  and  I.  We  fled  by  the  light  of  our 
flaming  farm-houses.  I  thought  that  bad,  but  it 
wasn't  the  worst.  That  came  when  They  took  me 
away  with  them.  What  I  have  been  through !  It 
is  as  if  I  had  suffered  and  suffered;  and  now  there 
is  nothing  left  me  to  feel  but  hatred.  And  I've  been 
back  there,  thinking  my  people  might  come  for  me. 
Mais,  they  never  came,  and  so  I  must  go  on.  I've 
an  aunt  in  Charvel.  There's  just  a  chance — But 
even  if  I  do  find  a  home,  I'll  still  hate  those  soldiers. 
I'd  kill  Them  if  I  could.  I  pray  to  Christ  that  some 
day  I  may  kill  to  avenge." 

"Is  that  what  you're  here  for?" 

"I'm  here  to  await  the  dawn." 

"Madame  is  religious?" 

"The  sisters  and  the  cure  were  my  only  teachers." 

"And  now  before  the  crucifix,  Madame '  prays 
Christ  for  the  power  to  kill?" 

"Non — non,"  her  voice  rose  shrilly.  "There  is 
no  Christ  here  on  this  cross.  The  canaille  pulled 
him  down  and  dragged  him  away  in  the  dirt  when 
They  passed.  There  were  peasants  who  begged 
Them  to  leave  the  figure,  but  They  left  only  the  cross 
— and  once — three  days  after  They  had  defiled  it — I 
saw  a  spy  crucified  there.  I  helped  cut  him  down. 
Now  it's  empty!" 

"Sacre,  it  is  like  Them,"  the  man  said.  "I'd  won 
dered  why  the  cross  was  bare.  I'm  not  one  of  your 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN  225 

b'/lievers,  but  I  can  see  how  it  would  hurt  a  good 
woman  like  you." 

UA  good  woman?"  She  questioned  vaguely,  as  if 
in  her  innocence  all  were  good.  "Mon  Dieu,  I  only 
know  that  it  hurt." 

He  looked  up  at  the  crucifix.  The  sky  was  slowly, 
very  slowly,  lightening. 

"It  will  soon  be  day,"  he  said. 

They  were  silent.  And  in  the  stillness  they  could 
feel  the  expectancy  of  dawn;  the  terse  waiting  for 
the  light.  The  eager,  anticipating  stare  of  each 
" vns  fixed  upon  the  other's  face. 

The  black  of  the  sky  merged  very  gradually  into 
:.  ^  ale,  sickly  gray.  Far  to  the  east  quivered  a  thin 
streak  of  yellow  light. 

The  three  drab  shadows  of  them  cowered  beneath 
the  cross. 

Mauve  and  pink  and  golden  light  spread  slowly 
over  the  firmament. 

"No,  it  can't  be !"  He  muttered,  his  eyes  upon  the 
man's  face — this  man  whom  he  had  sat  with  those 
long  hours  before  the  dawn,  whose  hand  he  still 
held  in  his.  He  thought  he  caught  the  man's  whis 
pered  "sacre!" 

The  woman  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Voila !"  She  taunted.  "But  it  is — oh,  so  pretty! 
A  French  soldier  with  a  leg  shot  off  and  a  German 
officer  to  nurse  him.  You  two — you  who  spoke  of 
hate,  do  you  still  sit  hand  in  hand?" 

"The  girl  from  Chalet  Corneille !"  He  had  known 
he  would  not  forget  her  face. 


226  THE  SCARECROW 

"The  dark  has  made  cowards  of  you,"  she 
mocked.  "Before  the  morning  you  clung  together. 
But  now  it  is  dawn !"  Her  voice  rang  out  bitterly, 
brutally  clear.  "Did  not  one  of  you  ask,  'Is  there 
anything  greater  than  hate'  ?n 

"Sacre!  What  you  say  is  just."  The  wounded 
man's  eyes  were  raised  to  glance  at  the  light-quiver 
ing  firmament.  Slowly  the  eyes  caught  the  sight  of 
something  else.  Very  gradually  they  took  in  that 
unexpected  thing.  Mechanically  the  words  were 
jerked  out:  "It — was — I — who — asked — "  A  sud 
den  pause — a  quick  gasp — "God  forgive  me — it — 
was— I !" 

The  uncanniness  of  the  words  shocked  him.  In 
spite  of  himself,  his  own  eyes  followed  the  man's 
wide  stare;  followed  it  from  the  eastern  horizon, 
over  the  shimmering  sky;  followed  it  until  he 
reached  the  crucifix.  The  hand,  which,  at  the  girl's 
words,  had  half-heartedly  sought  his  pistol,  shook 
now  as  he  crossed  himself. 

Was  it  the  smudging  shadows,  the  still  unlighted 
mass  of  them  up  there  on  the  arms  of  the  crucifix? 
Would  shadows  take  on  so  the  semblance  of  the 
human  body? 

"If  there  were  such  things — we'd  know  it — " 
Fragments  of  their  talk  in  the  night  came  vividly 
back  to  him.  "If  these  things  were  real — some 
times — we'd  see  it !" 

The  girl  dropped  to  her  knees.  Her  hands  were 
clinched  over  her  heaving  breast;  her  gaze  riveted 
itself  upon  that  mass  of  shadows,  high  up  on  the 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN  227 

cross;  that  mass  of  shadows  so  mysteriously  like 
the  dimly  defined  Christ  figure. 

With  a  hoarse,  racking  sob  that  shook  his  whole 
frame,  the  wounded  soldier  fell  upon  his  face.  Quick 
ly  the  officer  bent  o\7er  him,  his  hand  on  the  shaking 
shoulder,  his  breath  coming  and  going  in  short,  rasp 
ing  gasps.  Motionless  he  stood  there,  moving  only 
to  catch  hold  of  the  girl's  fingers,  that  reached  up 
and  clung  to  his. 

The  faint,  cold  light  of  early  morning  tinged 
across  the  gray-white  of  the  sky.  Daybreak  lighted 
the  three  grouped  figures  huddled  so  close  together 
beneath  the  crucifix.  Dawn  showed  clearly  the 
brown  wooden  cross  and  the  great  half-ripped  out 
nails  that  had  once  held  the  Christ. 


THE  STILLNESS 


THE  STILLNESS 

HE  cringed  in  shuddering  awe  beneath  the  still 
ness.  He  could  not  stand  the  heavy,  deep 
silence  of  it;  the  muffled,  sucking  thickness  absorbing 
so  completely  all  sound  into  its  deadening  mat.  He 
had  gotten  so  that  he  had  to  be  perpetually  stopping 
himself  from  screaming.  He  had  to  keep  watch 
on  himself  always.  He  was  terrified  that  he  might 
go  mad.  He  feared  the  oppression  of  the  awful 
quiet  would  craftily  draw  his  reason  away  from  him. 
He  did  not  want  to  scream.  He  did  not  want  to 
attempt  to  defy  the  harrowing,  rending  silence.  He 
was  afraid  of  the  blanketing,  saturating  weight  of 
the  stillness. 

Sometimes  when  he  could  bring  himself  to  think 
he  thought  that  he  might  after  all  like  to  go  about 
shouting  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  His  mind  kept  on 
surreptitiously  toying  with  the  thought  of  the  relief 
from  the  thing.  He  thought  of  it  a  lot.  He  knew 
that  shouting  about  his  own  farm  would  not  do  him 
any  good.  He  was  too  far  away  from  everything 
and  everyone  in  the  strip  of  valley  hemmed  in  be 
tween  the  rolling  hills.  Of  course  there  was  old 
man  Efferts.  Old  man  Efferts  did  not  live  so  very 
far  away.  He  knew  he  could  not  count  on  Efferts. 
Efferts  had  lived  there  too  long  in  the  stillness  that 

231 


232  THE  SCARECROW 

rolled  down  to  him  from  the  hills  and  came  together 
to  lie  flat  and  sluggish,  thudding  down  on  the  valley 
land.  If  he  could  bring  himself  to  walk  into  the 
ten-mile-off  town  shouting  so  that  other  people  would 
follow  after  him  shouting;  so  that  there  would  be 
some  kind  of  continuous,  human  noise  for  a  while. 
It  was  that  he  wanted  more  than  anything  else ;  hu 
man  noise. 

At  night  he  would  wake  suddenly  from  his  heavy, 
quiet  slumber;  from  the  dreamless,  ponderous  pit 
of  it  and  listen  to  the  stillness. 

When  he  first  went  to  bed  it  would  take  him  hours 
before  he  could  get  himself  off  to  sleep.  He 
dreaded  the  muted,  frantic  struggle  of  those  drag 
ging,  pulling  hours  in  which  he  would  try  to  shut 
his  ears  to  the  soundless,  deafening  silence  that 
throbbed  noiselessly  from  a  great  distance  and  was 
noiseless  in  the  room  all  about  him;  and  pressed 
noiselessly  against  his  blood  filled  ear-drums.  He 
had  the  feeling  at  night  that  the  stillness  became 
more  real  sweeping  in  a  greater  rush  down  the  hills; 
that  it  had  an  heightened,  insidious  power  to  get  in 
side  of  him. 

He  would  toss  about  on  his  narrow  wooden  bed 
for  hours;  moving  cautiously  and  carefully  so  as  not 
to  do  anything  that  would  offend  the  drugged  burden 
of  the  silence.  He  would  move  a  leg  or  an  arm  slyly 
and  then  he  would  lie  quite  quiet  for  a  time  holding 
his  breath  until  the  cracking  pain  came  plunging 
again  and  again  into  his  chest.  He  could  feel  the 
stillness  filling  in  all  the  spaces  and  crevices  around 


THE  STILLNESS  233 

him,  so  that  he  thought  it  rose  and  swelled  hideously. 

He  was  afraid  of  those  hours  before  he  went  to 
sleep;  before  he  could  drop  off  with  that  over 
whelming  sense  that  in  losing  consciousness  he  was 
consciously  letting  himself  drown  in  a  tremendous, 
swollen  wave  of  silence. 

And  then  toward  morning  that  sudden,  inevitable 
awakening.  His  rousing  himself  to  listen.  His 
whole  body  becoming  rigid;  tautly  holding  itself 
with  straining,  shaking  muscles  to  the  position  in 
which  he  lay.  The  sweat  breaking  out  all  over  him 
and  trickling  coldly  down  from  his  armpits  along 
his  sides.  His  cunning  shifting  of  his  head  so  that  he 
could  clear  his  ears  to  hear  better.  His  futile  hark- 
ening  for  the  sound  that  never  came.  His  intensive 
shivering  waiting  for  it.  And  nothing  but  the  still 
ness.  He  could  never  make  himself  move.  The 
thing  was  so  actual;  suffocatingly  potent;  malignant. 
He  had  grown  terrified  of  attempting  to  disrupt  it 
in  any  of  those  little  ways  at  his  command.  He  had 
begun  to  think  that  the  noise  he  would  make  would 
not  be  a  noise.  He  could  not  have  stood  the  shock 
of  making  a  noise  that  would  be  quite  vacantly  with 
out  sound. 

All  day  long,  working  in  his  fields,  he  used  to 
wonder  at  it.  In  the  sunlight  it  was  with  him  still 
and  bated.  It  rose  up  to  him  from  the  ground  at 
his  feet,  from  the  soil  it  had  wormed  itself  into.  It 
crushed  down  on  him  from  the  clear,  blue  sweep  of 
the  sky.  It  spread  unseen  toward  him  down  the 


234  THE  SCARECROW 

long,  uncertain  slopes  of  the  hills  coming  on  always 
from  all  sides  and  staying. 

It  had  become  so  that  nothing  was  real  to  him; 
nothing  but  the  stillness  that  drenched  everything; 
stifling  and  choking. 

The  old  mare  working  her  way  in  front  of  the 
plow  along  the  narrowed,  deepening  furrows,  was  a 
ghost  creature  to  him.  The  grayness  of  her 
blurred  ahead  of  him  in  the  brightest  stream  of  sun 
light.  Her  foolish,  stilly  gliding  played  horridly  on 
his  raw  nerves.  At  all  times  she  was  a  phantom  ani 
mal,  stirring  with  the  intangible  motion  of  the  si 
lence.  He  felt  that  she  did  not  belong  to  him;  that 
she  was  a  thing  of  the  stillness. 

He  would  trail  after  her,  his  quivering,  thin  hands 
on  the  plow  handles,  his  eyes  riveted  on  her  bony 
withers.  He  would  try  to  concentrate  his  thoughts 
on  the  way  she  moved  and  then  overcome  quite  sud 
denly  with  the  quiet,  insidious  stealth  of  her  ambling, 
he  would  pull  her  up  and  stop  to  mop  his  forehead, 
his  eyes  going  slowly  around  him  as  if  he  almost  ex 
pected  to  see  the  thing  that  had  lain  that  smother 
ing,  strangling  hold  on  to  him. 

His  one  and  only  companion  was  a  yellow  mongrel 
that  had  come  slinking  in  at  the  farm  gate,  its  tail 
drooping  between  its  legs.  He  had  been  glad  at 
first  of  having  the  dog  with  him.  And  then  gradually 
he  had  come  to  feel  the  oddness  of  the  animal.  If 
he  could  have  done  so  he  would  have  turned  the  dog 
out  again  into  the  stillness  from  which  it  had  come 
to  him.  He  was  sure  that  the  mongrel  must  be  old; 


THE  STILLNESS  235 

unnaturally  old.  He  could  not  understand  the  dog's 
awful  quiet.  In  his  heart  he  was  scared  of  the  dog. 
The  mongrel  followed  incessantly  at  his  heels,  al 
ways  with  dragging  tail.  Whenever  his  eyes  turned 
behind  him  they  met  the  mongrel's  eyes  that  were 
fixed  on  him;  the  eyes  that  were  filled  with  that  un 
canny,  beaten  look  as  if  it  had  been  horridly  cowed. 
There  was  an  age  of  agony  in  the  dog's  eyes.  As 
the  days  went  on  he  became  more  and  more  afraid 
of  the  mongrel's  eyes. 

He  had  come  out  to  the  farm  to  start  with  be 
cause  of  the  silence.  He  had  felt  that  he  would  have 
to  get  away  from  the  noise  and  the  tumultuous  up 
roar  of  the  city.  After  what  he  had  done  he  could 
not  stand  it.  He  had  gotten  away.  He  thought 
now  that  his  mind  would  snap;  that  it  would  break 
from  under  the  lull  which  had  come  into  it — The  lull 
which  devasted  him  with  its  hushed  brutality. 

He  had  never  been  fond  of  people.  Even  in  those 
days  back  there  in  the  city  before  he  had  done  the 
thing  that  was  wrong  he  had  mistrusted  them.  And 
after  it  he  had  run  from  them.  Run  wildly  and  un 
thinkingly  to  cover  with  the  fear  of  them  coming 
on  behind  him.  The  deathly,  lonely  farm  was  to  him 
at  that  time  a  haven  of  rest. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  live  on  the  farm  until 
the  end  of  his  life.  He  used  to  think  bitterly  of  his 
waiting  so  patiently  for  his  death.  When  he  could 
think  of  anything  other  than  the  silence  he  thought 
of  his  dying;  of  life  being  squeezed  out  of  him  by 
the  shrouded  quiet.  Sometimes  he  would  wonder 


236  THE  SCARECROW 

if  it  were  death  that  ominously  waited  for  him  in 
that  appalling,  threatening  stillness. 

There  had  been  days  when  he  had  tried  to  recall 
the  sound  of  voices  he  had  known.  He  had  spent 
long  hours  in  awakening  in  his  memory  those  voices. 
He  had  wanted  particularly  to  think  of  people  laugh 
ing.  He  used  to  want  to  get  the  pitch  of  their 
laughing;  to  surround  himself  with  the  vibration  of 
reiterated  laughter.  And  then  when  he  had  gotten 
it  so  that  he  almost  heard  it,  so  that  he  felt  that 
with  concentrated  attention  he  might  hear  the 
laughing,  he  would  find  himself  listening  to  the 
frightful,  numbing  stillness. 

He  had  not  the  courage  to  go  on  trying  that. 

Following  the  plow  and  the  old  gray  mare  through 
the  fields  with  the  dog  skulking  abjectly  at  his  heels, 
he  would  think  of  that  thing  which  he  had  done  that 
had  ostracized  him  from  the  rest  of  humanity.  He 
never  thought  of  the  possibility  of  making  his  life 
over  again.  He  could  not  have  thought  of  it  if  he 
had  wanted  to.  It  was  all  too  hopeless;  too  impos 
sible  to  think  about.  The  deadening  quiet  in  which 
he  had  been  steeped  had  drained  him;  sapped  from 
him  all  initiative. 

When  evening  came  he  would  go  into  his  shack 
and  close  the  door.  He  would  light  the  oil  lamp  on 
the  old  table  that  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  and 
he  would  go  about  getting  supper  for  himself  and 
the  mongrel.  He  took  great  care  always  to  move 
his  pots  and  pans  gently.  If  he  picked  up  a  plate 
he  did  it  slowly,  softly.  When  he  put  his  bowl  of 


THE  STILLNESS  237 

food  on  the  table  he  slid  it  consciously  onto  the 
surface  without  noise.  And  going  to  and  fro  not 
oftener  than  he  had  to,  his  feet  in  their  padded 
moccasins  lifted  him  to  his  toes. 

He  ate  quietly  and  quickly,  swallowing  his  food 
without  chewing,  feeding  himself  and  the  dog  with 
his  fingers.  And  all  the  while  feeling  that  the  still 
ness  was  rushing  down  from  the  hills  and  gathering 
to  greater  force  about  him. 

And  when  he  was  quite  finished  with  the  clearing 
away  of  his  dishes  he  wouuld  sit  beside  the  table,  the 
mongrel  in  front  of  him,  and  he  would  think  franti 
cally  of  the  relief  of  talking.  His  lips  would  begin 
to  quiver  hideously;  to  move.  That  hoarse,  inhuman 
muttering  that  had  no  sound  of  voice  in  it  would 
start.  And  then  he  would  see  the  dog's  eyes,  filled 
with  that  horrid,  beaten  look,  fixed  on  his  mouth  and 
he  would  stop,  gasping. 

Once  every  little  while  old  man  Efferts  would 
come  down  to  the  shack  in  the  valley. 

He  knew  nothing  of  old  man  Efferts  other  than 
that  ever  since  he  had  come  to  live  at  the  farm  Ef 
ferts  had  stopped  in  for  an  evening  now  and  again. 

At  first  he  had  resented  old  man  Efferts'  coming. 
Later  when  he  had  seen  that  Efferts  would  not  in 
terfere  with  him  he  had  not  minded  so  much.  He 
had  become  quite  used  to  seeing  the  bent,  huddled 
figure  of  the  man  trailing  down  the  hillside  and 
shambling  into  the  room  to  sit  there  opposite  to  him 
quite  silent.  Of  late  he  had  gone  about  fetching 
the  old  man  a  glass  of  cider  and  a  piece  of  bread. 


238  THE  SCARECROW 

And  they  had  sat  facing  each  other,  never  talking; 
just  sitting  rigidly  with  the  dog  on  the  floor  between 
them  and  the  silence  spilling  itself  in  gigantic  floods 
all  around  them.  And  then  old  Efferts  would  light 
his  pipe  and  when  he  had  finished  it  he  would  get 
up  and  go  out  of  the  door.  And  after  he  had 
watched  old  man  Efferts  go,  with  the  feeling  that  he 
might  not  be  real,  he  would  stumble  up  to  his  room 
to  lie  in  the  narrow  wooden  bed  trying  to  shut  his 
ears  to  the  deafening  silence  about  him;  cringing 
between  his  blankets  as  the  swell  of  it  heightened 
insidiously. 

He  knew  that  the  stillness  had  swamped  itself  into 
old  man  Efferts.  He  could  see  the  stamp  of  it  in 
the  uncertain,  stupefied  face ;  in  the  bewildered  eyes 
that  had  behind  them  something  of  the  look  that 
stayed  on  in  the  dog's  eyes ;  in  the  thin-lipped  mouth 
that  drooled  at  the  corners;  in  the  old  man's  still, 
quiet  way  of  moving,  the  unreal,  phantom  way  in 
which  the  gray  mare  moved.  He  did  not  know  why 
the  old  man  should  come  to  him  to  sit  so  dumbly  op 
posite  him  for  a  whole  evening.  He  did  not  care. 
He  was  long  past  caring. 

There  were  times  when  he  thought  he  might  tell 
old  man  Efferts  of  that  thing  which  he  had  done 
years  ago  and  which  had  isolated  him  from  his  fel 
lows.  Not  that  he  thought  so  much  of  it.  He  had 
almost  forgotten  it.  The  stillness  had  made  him  for 
get  everything  but  itself;  had  pushed  everything  out 
of  his  mind  before  its  own  spreading  weight.  But 
he  kept  the  thought  of  speaking  to  Efferts  of  what 


THE  STILLNESS  239 

he  had  done  in  the  back  of  his  head.  He  knew  how 
his  telling  it  to  Efferts  could  not  fail  to  act.  He 
knew  that  something  would  infallibly  happen;  that 
the  surprise  of  it  could  not  help  but  penetrate  the 
thickness  of  Efferts'  silence.  He  always  felt,  sooth 
ing  himself  with  the  thought  of  relief,  that  when 
the  power  of  the  stillness  became  unbearable  he 
would  shock  old  Efferts  into  talk.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  he  hungered  savagely  to  force  old  Ef 
ferts  out  of  his  walling  quiet.  Moments  when  he 
was  starving  for  the  comfort  of  human  sound.  His 
voice  and  Efferts'  voice.  Voices  that  would  rise 
above  the  stillness;  voices  that  would  penetrate  cun 
ningly  through  the  quiet;  voices  that  would  speak 
and  answer  each  other. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  center  of  his  lamp  lit  room. 
He  had  had  his  supper  and  had  cleared  away  the 
dishes  with  his  usual  crafty  carefulness.  He  had 
lighted  his  pipe.  He  sat  in  the  chair  beside  the  table ; 
his  body  quite  rigid;  his  arms  and  legs  stiffened  to  a 
torturing  quiet.  The  mongrel  crouched  at  his  feet. 
There  was  something  strange  in  the  way  the  animal 
lay;  in  its  tightened  muscles  that  pulled  and  twitched 
as  it  breathed.  Whenever  he  looked  down  his  eyes 
met  the  dog's  eyes. 

Outside  the  heavy  shadows  of  the  night  crept 
along  the  ground,  pushed  on  by  the  rushing,  rising 
silence  behind  them.  He  knew  that  the  stillness  was 
rolling  down  the  slope  of  those  long  hills.  He  knew 
that  its  awful  quiet  was  gathering  in  the  valley.  He 
knew  that  it  was  trickling  horridly  still  into  the  low 


240  THE  SCARECROW 

ceilinged  room.  He  had  the  feeling  for  the  thou 
sandth  time  that  the  most  minute  noise  was  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  stillness  before  it  came  into  being. 

He  looked  up  then  to  see  the  door  shoved  warily 
ajar.  A  wrinkled,  ugly  hand  showed  against  the 
dark  wood  in  a  lighter  patch  of  brown.  A  coarse 
booted  foot  came  behind  the  swing  of  the  door. 
Standing  against  the  black  of  the  night  he  saw  old 
man  Efferts. 

He  watched  the  old  man  come  into  the  room. 

He  saw  him  pull  up  a  chair,  lifting  it  from  off  the 
floor  and  setting  it  down  opposite  to  him  within  the 
pooling  space  of  the  yellow  lamplight.  He  stared 
at  Efferts  as  he  sank  into  the  chair. 

Old  man  Efferts  took  out  his  pipe  and  lit  it. 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  Efferts  as  he  had  so  often 
done ;  on  the  uncertain,  stupefied  face  that  was  turned 
to  him;  on  the  bewildered  eyes  that  had  something 
behind  them  of  the  look  that  stayed  on  in  the  dog's 
eyes;  on  the  thin-lipped  mouth  that  drooled  at  the 
corners.  / 

He  got  up  then  and  went  on  his  toes  to  the  door 
and  closed  it  softly.  He  felt  that  Efferts'  eyes  were 
on  him;  and  the  mongrel's  eyes.  He  came  back  and 
sat  down  in  his  chair. 

They  both  smoked  quietly. 

He  remembered  the  glass  of  cider  and  the  piece  of 
bread. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  move  to-night. 

He  felt  the  suffocating  weight  of  the  stillness 
crowding  past  him.  It  was  expanding  menacingly 


THE  STILLNESS  241 

throughout  the  small  room.  It  filled  in  all  about 
him. 

Presently  old  man  Efferts  would  finish  his  pipe 
and  would  get  up  and  shamble  out  of  the  door.  He 
would  sit  there  and  watch  him  go  as  he  always 
watched,  wondering  if  perhaps  old  man  Efferts  was 
not  real.  And  then  he  would  stumble  up  to  bed  and 
lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  stillness  that  grew  greater 
and  greater. 

He  wanted  the  relief  from  that  silence;  wanted 
it  desperately;  passionately. 

He  remembered  that  if  he  told  Efferts  of  that 
thing  that  he  had  come  so  near  forgetting  in  the 
smothering  quiet  that  he  would  have  what  he  so 
frantically  wanted.  Some  human  speech.  Human 
talk  that  would  break  the  silence  even  for  a  little 
while;  the  sound  of  human  voices  that  would  rise 
and  answer  each  other. 

He  glanced  at  the  old  man  surreptitiously.  He 
tried  to  think  what  expression  would  come  into 
that  stupid  face  with  the  bewildered  eyes;  he  tried 
to  see  the  thin-lipped  drooling  mouth  as  it  would 
look  with  the  lips  of  it  startled  into  moving. 

He  sat  very  still. 

Words  formed  themselves;  lagging  into  his  mind. 

"I — am — going — to — tell — " 

He  would  start  to  say  it  to  old  man  Efferts  that 
way. 

He  could  not  stand  the  stillness  any  longer. 

Anything  was  better  than  the  appalling  agony 
of  the  quiet. 


242  THE  SCARECROW 

He  made  a  little  tentative  movement  with  his  thin, 
shaking  hands. 

He  felt  that  Efferts  was  staring  at  him. 

The  mongrel  crouching  at  his  feet  moved 
stealthily.  He  heard  no  sound  from  the  animal's 
moving.  He  knew  it  had  gotten  to  its  feet.  He 
saw  it  standing  there  between  where  he  sat  and 
where  Efferts  sat. 

He  felt  his  lips  begin  to  quiver. 

"I — am — going — to — " 

He  got  the  words  into  his  head  again  through  the 
menacing,  waiting  stillness. 

He  muttered  something. 

Old  man  Efferts  leaned  forward,  his  hand  behind 
his  ear. 

In  a  sudden  blinding  flash  of  knowledge  he  real 
ized  that  old  man  Efferts  was  deaf. 

He  felt  his  mouth  twisting  around  his  face. 

He  tried  then  to  shout. 

His  eyes  avoided  the  mongrel's  eyes  that  he  knew 
were  filled  with  that  uncanny,  beaten  look  and  were 
fixed  on  his  jerking,  grimacing  mouth. 

All  about  him  the  ominous,  malignant  silence. 

He  tried  again  and  again  to  speak.  He  could  not 
talk.  Sweat  stood  out  in  great,  glistening  beads  on 
his  forehead  and  dribbled  blindingly  into  his  wide, 
distended  eyes.  His  body  shook  with  the  stupendous 
effort  he  was  making.  His  tongue  was  swollen. 
He  could  feel  his  throat  tightening  so  that  it  hurt. 
He  could  not  get  his  words  into  that  hoarse,  inhu 
man  muttering  that  had  no  sound  of  voice  in  it, 


THE  STILLNESS  243 

He  kept  on  trying  and  trying  to  speak — 

He  saw  that  old  man  Efferts  had  finished  his  pipe. 
He  watched  him  get  out  of  his  chair  and  go  sham 
bling  across  the  room  and  through  the  door. 

He  sat  there. 

His  hands  went  up  to  his  working  mouth.  He 
wanted  to  hide  the  hideous  jerking  of  it. 

His  eyes  met  the  mongrel's  eyes. 

The  stillness  grew  appalling. 


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